


An Old Lion Amongst Young Wolves

by Angelic_Temptress



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post Season 7, Post-Canon, Westerosi Politics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2019-10-24 02:41:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 31,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17696081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angelic_Temptress/pseuds/Angelic_Temptress
Summary: “The raven your brother sent from Dragonstone promised a Lannister army, yet here you are with no garrison, no cavalry.”He took a deep breath and a step forward. “My sister had no intention of aiding the North in this war with the dead. I came to warn your brother and his Dragon Queen.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Jaime**

Jaime Lannister subtly shifted on the balls of his feet in an attempt to warm his toes. Within his worn boots, the woolen socks he’d bought at an inn were sodden and clung uncomfortably to his skin. He was tired and chilled to the bone, a cloak of brown – _not crimson_ – hidden beneath what furs he could buy or salvage during his journey north. It required all his resolve to keep his teeth from chattering though his body still shivered.

Ser Bronn of the Blackwater stood beside him, seemingly relaxed. How the man could veil his discomfort and appear as if he could care less of his surroundings, Jaime did not know. Together, they stood within the Great Hall of Winterfell, a foreign but familiar sight. It had been seven years since Jaime had last traveled this far north, seven years since he had served as Robert’s Kingsguard, a lapdog trailing a bitch and a glutton.

The North was full of ghosts, two of which flanked the Lady of Winterfell. A lanky, crippled boy sat in a wheelchair to her left, and a girl stood just beyond her right shoulder, her face in shadow and a slender blade at her hip. Jaime misliked the indifference he read in one pair of eyes and the wrath in the other. A silent, white direwolf lay before the eldest sibling who coolly sat with hands folded neatly before her. She very much reminded him of her mother, and the thought sent a twinge to his gut. Half a dozen guards lined the hall, faces younger than he’d expected. If Jaime had been whole, the children would have summoned twice that number.

“Ser Jaime, I must admit I am a bit surprised to see you here alone.” Sansa Stark tilted her head slightly. “The raven your brother sent from Dragonstone promised a Lannister army, yet here you are with no garrison, no cavalry.”

He took a deep breath and a step forward. “My sister had no intention of aiding the North in this war with the dead. I came to warn your brother and his Dragon Queen.”

“To tell of her treachery,” Lady Sansa confirmed candidly, her Tully eyes fixated upon him. “Is it truly betrayal if a woman is a known deceiver? Both our brothers are foolish, I think, to have believed her at all. I know your sister very well, ser, and she only acts as she is meant to.” She paused a moment to glance at Bran Stark. “However, I do not know you. Why ride north with only Ser Bronn at your side?”

“I pledged my service in this war. I made a vow and plan to honor it.”

“The vow of a Lannister,” Arya sneered. The little she-wolf knew him no better than her sister, he thought, and unfortunately, the silent Bran may have been the best acquainted with Jaime.

Lady Sansa sent a slanted glare to her sister. “I was told you had once made a vow to our mother as well.”

Arya growled, “And drank with her murderers in the very hall where they’d cut her throat.” The girl’s large, stormy eyes narrowed. “What was the toast? The Lannisters and the Freys send their regards?”

Bronn made a face at Jaime. They were sure to die today.

As Sansa seemed to deliberate the new information, he sensed a trace of her father’s self-righteousness in her stare. It bothered him more than he would have cared to admit. “You’d pledged to return the Stark daughters to Winterfell and had charged Lady Brienne with the task. She saved my life.” She lowered her eyes a moment, and it was then that Jaime also recognized the hardness to her, a wall of ice upon her skin. “For that, I thank you.”

He’d once told Brienne girls like her don’t last very long, but Jaime had been curiously mistaken. All he could do was nod. “I knew then as I know now, Lady Brienne will shield you with her life. I speak from experience.”

“Sapphires,” Bran Stark uttered, startling him. The boy’s brown eyes shifted suddenly to focus on Jaime, his cold stare almost ripping through him. “You entrusted Lady Brienne with your sword.”

“ _Rubies_ sit in its hilt. She saved my life, and so I gave her a sword to safeguard Lady Sansa’s. A Lannister always pays his debts, after all.” _Ice_ , a voice in his mind seemed to whisper. _You’d given the maid a piece of Ned Stark’s blade to protect Ned Stark’s daughters._ “It was the least I could do.”

The boy smiled, though the mirth never touched his eyes. “The things you do for love.”

Jaime’s stomach dropped, and he thought he could taste bile in his throat. He had no words, nothing he could say. Clearly, the boy remembered the tower and what he’d done, but Bran Stark said nothing more.

Sansa stood from her seat at her father’s table. “Starks pay their debts as well, Ser Jaime. Winterfell welcomes you. I will have rooms prepared for both you and Ser Bronn and will ensure you are brought a tub and some broth to eat. If you’d like, I could send the maester to look in on you.”

“A maester is unnecessary. The scrub alone will do us each a world of good.”

She motioned to one of the soldiers. “I would very much like you to sup with me tonight, Ser Jaime.”

“It would be my pleasure, Lady Stark.”

A guard motioned Jaime to follow him out of the Great Hall, and he and Bronn did so with wary expressions on their faces. As they passed other men, Jaime mentally took note of each sigil he recognized; most were northern, but several were of the Erie and Runestone.

Where was the Lord Protector of the Vale if his men were at Winterfell?

“After my bath, I think I may stop in on the brothel. I like the look of northern women – full bodied and full bushed.” Bronn raised his eyebrows, almost teasingly.

“Tyrion had sung their praises.”

“Tell ya of what I see.” _And of what I hear_ , Bronn said without speaking. His mouth twisted, as if he were picking his teeth with his tongue.

“This one’s yours, Lannister,” the guard stated, though his tone spat _Kingslayer_.

Jaime only shrugged at Bronn before stepping into his guest quarters, grateful to see a fire already burning in the hearth. With haste, he stripped himself of his damp cloak and furs and hung them to dry. Once he’d pulled off his boots, he peeled the wet socks from his frozen feet and revelled in the luxury of wiggling his liberated toes.

A large mirror hung near the fireplace, and his reflection looked terrible. Bags sat beneath his eyes, and an untidy, graying beard covered most of his face. Jaime had aged nearly a decade on his ride to the bitter north, since his sweet sister had threatened his life.

A knock at the door, and he was met with an iron tub, several serving women, a heel of bread, and a bowl of greasy broth. As he hungrily slurped his meager meal, the three women hurriedly brought buckets of hot water to fill his tub. It took a few rotations, but they were done just before he finished his soup.

The smallest of the women, a girl really, returned to his room with a bar of soap and fresh clothes. She set them upon the bed and curtsied uncomfortably. “Will there be anything else you need, m’lord?” she asked as she gathered his bowl and spoon.

Jaime studied her round face and the thick, dark hair she’d tied back with a handkerchief. She had a familiarity, but he could not place her. “No,” he answered, cautiously. “Thank your lady for her kindness.”

The girl nodded and closed the door as she left.

+++

**Sansa**

She wrung her hands as she waited for Bran to speak, his eyes distant, gazing at something beyond his room. Though Sansa knew her brother still sat before her, he had evolved into something more, something magical: _The Three-Eyed Raven_ , whatever that meant.

Jon had left them all in a strange predicament. The Vale and the whole of the North had pledged fealty to the Targaryen queen with the bend of his knee, and he hadn’t thought to consult his advisors or his family. Sansa knew because he’d been named King, the decision ultimately belonged to Jon, but his rashness perturbed her nonetheless. And he was a king in every right: King in the North, named by their countrymen, and the King of Westeros, by blood – the blood of old Valyria and of the First Men. Jon was the son of their Aunt Lyanna, the legitimate heir of Rhaegar Targaryen.

A deep breath permitted Sansa to quell her private unease. She had to be strong. Smart. Her family and the northern people deserved that much.

Arya stepped into the bedroom unannounced, wearing her usual leathers and cape. She glanced at their brother before speaking. “The Kingslayer bathes now, but his sellsword has discovered the brothel. I assume he’s there to scout between fucks.”

Sansa stiffened at her sister’s vulgarity, forgetting a moment that she was nearly a woman grown, an assassin who had witnessed their brother’s corpse paraded with his direwolf’s head upon his shoulders. None of the Starks had emerged from their journeys unscathed or unchanged. She blinked the thought away.

“It matters not. Neither the whores nor the soldiers know anything of true importance.” Sansa sat down next to Bran and folded her hands in her lap.

“They’ll tell of Littlefinger and of Ramsey.” A twinkle in her sister’s cold eyes sent a shiver down Sansa’s spine, which she tried to ignore. “I don’t trust him.”

“The sellsword?”

“The Kingslayer.”

“Of course you don’t, and I do not ask you to.” Sansa sighed. “Brienne does, and I don’t believe she offers herself blindly.” When met with a skeptical look, she continued. “He left Cersei. To find us, he barreled through the snow without an army. Ser Jaime has a target on his back, which I’m sure he’s well aware of. He forfeited everything to be here, but we need to know why.”

Sansa supposed the lion offered them little more than another perspective of his cruel sister, but she needed to ascertain his motive either way. Revenge? Duty? Love? She needed to play the game Littlefinger had taught her.

Abruptly, Arya pulled her dagger from its sheath, juggling it in her left hand. “He’s the reason Bran can’t walk.”

“Bran doesn’t care and, if he did, he would probably thank him. Besides, it’s perhaps the least abhorrent act done to our family in the last five years.” She bit her bottom lip for an instant, knowing Arya wouldn’t listen to a word she said. “We need allies, and the more who are loyal to the Starks, the better.”

“Loyal to you,” Arya stated, the glimmer gone.

Sansa shook her head. “To us.”

“Two days.”

Both sisters turned their attention to Bran who still did not look at them.

“Jon will be at Winterfell in two days time, with his aunt and her host.”

Sansa felt the hair on the back of her neck stand tall. Queen Daenerys would bring dragons, Unsullied, Dothraki, and Tyrion Lannister. Which caused her the most anxiety, she wasn’t sure.

+++


	2. Chapter 2

**Jaime**

Several quick raps upon his door almost startled Jaime as he held his golden hand in his left, about to fasten it onto his arm. Irritated, he set the metal atop a table and moved to unlock the heavy wooden door.

A fat man with a nervous smile spread across his bearded face stood before him. “Hello,” he greeted with only a slight squeak. “I’m Sam. Lady Sansa asked that I look in on you.”

Jaime wanted to refuse but instead opened the door fully. “The hot bath helped me regain my warmth. I feel fine.”

Sam glanced at the gold on the table. “Do you need assistance with – ”

“No,” he answered before the question could be asked. “You said Lady Sansa had sent you… I see no maester’s chain, Sam.”

With an awkward laugh and a shrug, Sam shook his head. “I never forged any of the links, ser. I found the Citadel pompous and inflexible, worse than the old men of the Night’s Watch, really. I’d left when they refused to take Bran’s forewarning seriously.”

“You’re a man of the Night’s Watch?”

“I am. I was to be the maester, but it seems there is no time to forge links and chains. We need all of what little we have to prepare. I hope to have your brother skim through a few of the texts I, um, borrowed. I’ve been told he has a great mind.” Sam again looked to Jaime’s golden hand. “May I?”

Jaime regarded the man for a moment and then nodded. “You’re a southerner?”

“Of the Reach,” Sam answered as he lifted the hand. “Tarly is my surname.”

“Randal Tarly’s son?” When the boy nodded, Jaime frowned. Though he held no love for the family, he knew he should say something. The brother was gallant, at the very least. “I am sorry for your loss. Your father and brother were very brave.” He paused, attempting to remember the son’s name. “ _Dickon_ had come to my aid on the battlefield, saved my life.”

Sam glanced to him and back to the metal in his palms, his brown eyes quivering. “She burned them because they would not bend.”

“The Dragon Queen burned many of my men that day.”

“My father was unkind, but Dickon…” Sam stopped himself with a forced chuckle. “Allow me to assist you with your fastenings, Ser Jaime. Then I can take you to Lady Sansa’s chambers, where she wishes to sup.” Sam was quick, once Jaime provided his stump. “You’ll want to wear the cloak the lady provided. Winterfell can be quite drafty, despite what the bedrooms lead you to believe.”

Sam Tarly guided Jaime through hallways, bustling with men in heavy furs. The Starks had an army within their castle walls, and Lady Sansa was wise to keep them close. It didn’t take more than a few minutes to reach her large room. There were no adornments, only a desk with parchment strewn atop it and a smaller table with a carafe and two dinner settings. The Lady of Winterfell never held private suppers, it seemed.

As Sam turned to leave, Sansa Stark stepped into the doorway, a small smile upon her pink lips. “Thank you, Sam. Please tell Gilly I expect both of you and the baby to join me to break your fast on the morrow.” She then closed the door only a bit, leaving it ajar. “Ser Jaime.”

“Thank you again for your hospitality, Lady Sansa.” He waited for her to take her seat before he did the same.

She lifted the carafe and poured them each a glass. “I hope red will suffice. Both your siblings preferred it, if I remember correctly. It also seems to complement the stew.”

The same serving girl who had brought Jaime clothing earlier that afternoon came carrying a pot. Inelegantly, she ladled two helpings into each of their bowls, sloshing a small amount onto the table. She and Sansa exchanged a look, and once finished serving, the girl briefly bowed her head and scuttled from the room.

Lady Sansa blew on her spoonful before swallowing. He mimicked, glad he had, as it was much hotter than he’d expected. The lamb stew had carrots, onions, and potatoes, seasoned with thyme and peppercorns. Jaime bit into his black bread, happy to be fed it all.

“What truly brings you to Winterfell?”

“I told you I had pledged to ride north.” After a swallow of wine, he continued. “I’d seen the dead man your brother had brought to King’s Landing, and I know they’ll overrun this kingdom if given the chance.” Jaime mixed his stew arbitrarily, knowing his hostess needed more reason than his sense of honor. “Your sworn sword had reminded me of something I’d learned long ago.”

The young Stark appeared intrigued. “And what was it that Lady Brienne had said?”’

Jaime smiled. “Fuck loyalty.”

Her mouth twitched. “That doesn’t sound like Brienne.”

“I know, and I assure you her profanity had caught me off guard as well. We both know Lady Brienne is only capable of speaking truth.” Though Jaime could not read her stare, it was clear he had yet to persuade the girl. “She prompted me to do what was right. This goes beyond houses, honors, and oaths. So, I’ve come to pledge what little service I can offer.” He wished Brienne were there to lend credence to his words. Maybe Sansa Stark would trust him then.

“And what skills can you offer, ser? Forgive my frankness, but you’re a one-handed knight with no home, no queen, and no army.” Her cold words were meant to cut, but he’d been ready for them.

“Well, I had heard of a clever girl who had won the north on her own accord. Her dolt brother had botched his strategy and lost far too many men because of it. She, however, had had the foresight and brought a cavalry.” Jaime dipped his bread in the stew, soaking up the sauce. “Your brother thinks with his heart, and your new queen is all fury. Your husband may be wise, but he knows next to nothing of battle.” Before Sansa could interrupt, he added, “I outsmarted Tyrion at nearly every pass.”

“Until Daenerys rode in on her dragon.”

Jaime nodded reluctantly, ignoring the phantom stench of burning flesh. “She changed the game, and perhaps now this war with the dead is one we can endure because of it.”

“So you propose to command my army?”

“You’re savvy. I know because you have the force of the Vale here, and I have yet to see Littlefinger.”

The girl said nothing.

“He was a snake, and it is good you stomped him out.”

“He is the reason Jon Arryn is dead and why my family went to war with yours. After you crippled Bran, he sent the assassin to kill him.”

Jaime blinked.

“Lord Baelish anticipated how our families would react and what the chaos would give him.” Sansa sipped her wine slowly, her eyes still set upon his own. With red on her lips, she stated, “He had also orchestrated Joffrey’s murder, framing your brother.”

Sansa Stark, in her time with his siblings, had become a politician, and though she could not know the detail was no true revelation, it was information the Lady of Winterfell had given freely. Maybe the girl sought to buy his loyalty after all.

“Seems he’d conspired with Lady Olenna. She had admitted to the poisoning after drinking a cup of her own.”

The girl’s eyebrow slightly rose. “Good for her. He was a monster, and it is better for Westeros that he’s dead.” She swallowed another spoonful of stew.

“I know,” he said. “Joffrey was too much of his mother.”

“But he was your son nonetheless.” The Stark did not allow any emotion to slip into her stare. “Therefore, I do understand why you did to Bran as you did. We’ll leave it at that.” Her startling bluntness allowed for an unknown tension to escape his achy shoulders. She then put her spoon down, careful not to clang it against the bowl. “No doubt you and Ser Bronn had kept a low profile on your journey north?”

“If I hadn’t, I’d have surely lost my head.”

“Yes, you have quite a reputation. If I name a Lannister a general in the Stark army, it will certainly not sit well with my bannermen.”

Again, he grinned. “I should expect not.”

“Therefore you must provide more than your expertise, Ser Jaime.” Sansa leaned back in her chair, her hands atop each armrest. “Tell me how Cersei plans to attack us while our backs are turned.” She was another who knew Cersei better than he did, and perhaps this realization would be a running theme for the rest of his days.

Still, Jaime felt his heart in his throat and made sure to swallow before divulging. “My sweet sister has struck a deal with the Golden Company. Euron Greyjoy had already gone to fetch them when I had abandoned her.”

Unmoved, Sansa pressed her lips together as she thought. “I’d preemptively ordered a battalion to the Twins, since the male Freys... took their leave. Lady Waynwood of the Vale and Lord Reed of the Neck are tasked with overseeing the men stationed there. A raven from Roslin Frey had informed me that she’d already freed my Uncle Edmure. The Twins belong to the Starks.”

Impressed, Jaime had another sip of his red wine. “Am I correct in presuming Jon Snow knows nothing of your shrewd maneuvers?”

“He and the Queen will know as soon as they arrive, which should be within a day or so.” The servant girl came to collect their plates and left again as Sansa continued. “You see, I’d told my brother not to underestimate Cersei, and yet both Jon and Tyrion have. It appears they cannot comprehend that all she cares for is power, and I can only assume you’ve finally learned that lesson or else you wouldn’t be here sharing my wine. For that act alone, I doubt Cersei would welcome you back with a kiss.”

Jaime bristled at the Stark’s informality. The girl returned, bringing another carafe and catching his eye as she did. She smiled at him, an unnerving smirk that finally placed her within his memory. He glanced to Sansa and back at the girl, dumbfounded.

“I thought I recognized you. You were pouring wine at the Twins.” He snatched the girl’s right wrist, but before he could even follow her movements, a steel blade was pressed against his throat. The girl glared at him, and he looked to his host, almost thrilled. “An assassin, Lady Stark? Seems a bit out of character for your lot.”

She only huffed. “Let her go.”

Once he released his grip, the girl stepped back, nicking his skin as she did. He caught the drop of blood before it could reach his collar. “Order this one to murder the Freys, did you? I doubt your father would have found that honorable.”

“Walder Frey violated guest right and killed Northern men and women as they dined,” the girl snarled. “Winter had come for his house, and it will come for yours as well, if you’re not careful.”

“Enough,” Sansa ordered with jaw clenched. It was the most heated he’d seen her since arriving earlier that day.

Beneath her quiet discontent, Jaime recognized Sansa’s own hint of astonishment and quickly understood that he had guessed wrong. He chanced another guess. “Lady Arya,” he named and received confirmation when the girl’s eyes widened. “I’d heard of faceless men but had thankfully never met one. I suppose we now know where you’d run off to after your father’s beheading.”

The servant girl, who did not look like Arya Stark, raised the blade again, providing a good look at the familiar Valyrian dagger.

He was now convinced of Littlefinger’s fate.

+++


	3. Chapter 3

**Sansa**

“Leave us,” Sansa requested more than commanded. Arya, wearing the face of a maid, tucked the Catspaw dagger into a dress pocket before doing as asked.

Jaime Lannister proved to be more astute than she’d originally believed. As his emerald eyes sparkled with realization, he poured more wine into each of their cups and allowed his annoyingly fetching grin to widen. “The Lady of Winterfell, whose sister studied with the faceless men of Bravos, may be more prepared for this war than anyone anticipated.”

“Strategy should be something we discuss with Jon and his queen.”

Jaime tilted his head, peering at her suspiciously. “Yes, with his queen and your husband.”

The lion wanted a rise out of her, and Sansa felt a sudden warmth in her cheeks she hoped was just the wine. In an attempt to appear indifferent, she swished the liquid in her goblet. “I am no man’s wife.”

He added curtly, “Why any woman would willingly marry is beyond me, but I care nothing for politics. In fact, I’m terrible at it.” The Lannister shifted, crossing his legs to sit more casually. “But you don’t have to be a politician to know you need friends if this accord with the Dragon goes south.”

Sansa suddenly did not feel as shrewd as she had earlier in the day.

“Tyrion and I may not currently have the lands or the gold, but we have the name. With two Lannister brothers rallied at your side, the kingdom will take notice.” Jaime shrugged. “Shame, really. I think you and Tyrion would have made a good match.”

“You’ve known me for all of an evening, ser.”

“Yes, and I stand by my opinion.”

She lowered her eyes a moment. “My marriage to your brother was never consummated, and it is widely known that Lord Baelish used that to his benefit when he sold me to the Boltons. Since last I saw Tyrion, I had been wed and widowed.”

“And who is to say that was not the sham marriage? Littlefinger, who is long dead and a known conspirator? Did a septon annul your first? All the septons of King’s Landing are dead, thanks to my sister.” He took a long drink of his wine, licking his lips after. “You’re a fool if you believe Tyrion would care.”

“Mind your tongue, ser. You are still a guest in my home.”

“As your brother-by-law, I thought it best I speak honestly.”

“And as her little sister, I think it best you behave when addressing Lady Stark.” Arya stood in the doorway, with her hand on the pommel of her sword and the face that rightfully belonged to her. Sansa couldn’t guess how long she’d been there.

Jaime only smirked, knowing his advice was sound. “Tyrion loves me, but you have something I do not.”

 _Tears aren’t a woman’s only weapon_ , Cersei’s voice whispered from somewhere in her mind. _The best one’s between your legs_. Sansa shuddered unconsciously.

Joffrey Baratheon had cared only for pain, Ramsay Bolton had used her body against her, Petyr Baelish had been a greedy, self-serving deceiver, and all were proof many men were not susceptible to beauty alone.

She remembered Lord Baelish’s gurgling and the wet, smacking sound Ramsay’s meat had made in the mouths of his hounds. Though both memories managed to settle her soft tremble, a small part of her still wished she had remained to watch Joffrey die as well.

Sansa no longer wanted to dwell on it. “I need you to know my brother has not been concerned with Cersei, that his mind lies beyond the _fallen_ Wall.” She watched his eyes change and widen with disbelief. “Daenerys lost a dragon when Jon ventured North for his silly meeting in the dragon pit.”

Jaime’s jaw nearly dropped. “Cersei was right.” He swallowed more wine as something akin to dread clouded his eyes. “Is it only men this Night King can awaken?”

Sansa sighed heavily. “There have been reports of a dragon spewing blue fire. We believe that is how he destroyed the Wall.”

“Fucking fools, your King and Queen.”

“The dead come, yet I do not know if they’ve reached the homes of either the Karstarks or the Umbers. As you well know, Winterfell is the last stronghold before Moat Cailin and the Neck, before they are in the Riverlands.” Sansa also sipped more of her wine, a larger gulp this time.

“So what does the Lady of the North plan to do?”

“I would have you look south, until the dead breathe down your neck.”

Surprise touched his handsome face. “You’d have me command your southern host?”

“Jon knows the North. He’s been beyond the Wall, and the Wildlings fight for him. This makes most sense, I think. And the dragons...” With a raised eyebrow, Sansa asked what Jaime had not. “Will you bend the knee to Daenerys?”

“I will never bend to a Targaryen. Not again.”

She let the words roll over her, praying she hadn’t reacted. “And to the Starks? To me?”

“In a time of certain death, you dare ask if I would swear a vow? To you?” He laughed with only his mouth. “You are very much like your mother, but she had the sense to put Brienne’s sword to my throat.”

“If you prefer, it could still be arranged.” Arya nearly glided into Sansa’s chambers, her footfalls light. “Though both my steel and I are smaller, I guarantee we’re just as sharp.”

Sansa shrugged. “Or you could return to your sister and tell her all you’ve learned, knowing that if we do not survive, neither will either of you.”

The Kingslayer glanced between the sisters. “And you’d trust my word?”

“My mother had. Lady Brienne still does.” Sansa lifted her goblet, to toast their alliance. “Perhaps they saw your potential, or perhaps they were desperate. But you’re here. You swore you would fight the dead, to aid Winterfell, and despite Cersei, you came.”

Arya’s grey eyes hadn’t moved from Jamie’s green. Sansa knew her sister waited for a tell, anything that would indicate a lie. _The Game of Faces_ , she’d called it.

“Done.” Jaime lifted his wine and touched it to Sansa’s, the clinking sound resonating in the air. After they both drank, he asked, “Would you like me to upon my knees now, my lady?”

Before Arya could snap, Sansa answered. “I will call my bannerman to the Great Hall on the morrow. I would like to have witnesses when you swear.”

“I swore my oath to Aerys before scores of families. They won’t believe me, no matter how I am displayed.”

“Have him swear now,” Arya turned to Sansa, her eyes calm. “Jon’s chosen the Dragon, and the North does not trust it. You’ll have a Lannister serve as your commander, and the North will not like it.” Her sister stepped back, to give him space. “Many here lost family at the Red Wedding. I bore witness to the crimes there.”

Jaime’s expression softened, but only slightly. “What was done at the Twins was no idea of mine.”

“I don’t care. My sister does not care. Bran claims that although you are not the same man who came to Winterfell all those years ago, you’ve always acted for love.” Her right hand again settled upon Needle’s pommel. “I do not know who or what you love, but think of them when you lay your sword before the Lady of Winterfell.”

Sansa was nearly speechless, but she stood and straightened her shoulders, lifting her chin to stare down at the knight. “Ser Jaime Lannister, on your honor, swear fealty to the Starks.”

He stood from his seat, eyes downcast. Arya inched closer to her. Valyrian steel slipped from its scabbard, glittering in the firelight. The gold pommel shined and the large ruby near the hilt sparkled as he laid it upon the floor between them. She thought it the same sword Tywin had gifted Joffrey.

_Widow’s Wail, indeed._

+++


	4. Chapter 4

**Jaime**

When Arya Stark had bid Jaime to think upon those he loved, he hadn’t conjured Cersei or the seed growing within her belly. His sister had sucked his essence dry, leaving him with nothing but ire, disappointment, and heartbreak. 

Briefly, he’d thought of Tyrion, his dead mother, his dead father, and his dead children – Joffrey's cruel mouth, Myrcella’s stubborn radiance, and Tommen’s doe-eyes. But as Jaime had placed the steel before Lady Sansa’s feet, his mind had settled upon Brienne. Even now, he thought his forearm burned from when she’d last grasped him. _Fuck loyalty_. Her words had been a shock to his body, a validation of sorts. She’d listened to him, believed in him, and, evidently, learned from him as well. He’d tarnished her just as she had polished him. 

He filled a goblet with wine, though it probably was unwise to have another, and moved to sit upon his featherbed, his eyes on the hearth. The fire crackled and gleamed, but all he could see was Brienne: her grimace before she lunged, the ugly pink dress, the bear pit, her blue armor, and her eyes when she’d named Oathkeeper. She’d demanded nothing of him but honesty and honor. 

Now he understood he’d never been more enthralled by anything or by anyone. Jaime thought of their farewell at Harrenhal, how brave and trusting she’d been when placing their shared promise to Catelyn into his care. From then on, they had been cursed to endlessly say goodbye, and each time Brienne had left, her grace and steadiness had astonished him. 

For far too long he had refused to recognize his need to follow her. 

A knock at the door pulled his gaze from the flames. Bronn stepped inside and helped himself to the wine. “How’d it go with the girl?” 

“Girl? Ned Stark’s children are no longer children, and we are no longer hedge knights.”

“Oh? What sort of knights are we these days?” 

“We’re Stark men.” Jaime almost laughed at the absurdity. 

Bronn shrugged. “Do you know what happened to that Bolton bastard?” 

“Executed, one would assume.” 

“I have it on good authority – well, a whore’s authority – that our Lady Stark fed him to his own dogs.” He sat down across from Jaime, his mouth a frown. “He was alive when they ate him. Rumor is she watched.” 

Jaime again swallowed a lump in his throat. The lady’s talent for politics may not have been all Sansa had learned during her stay in King’s Landing. 

+++ 

**Sansa**

“You spoke to Bran about him?” 

Both Sansa and Arya sat upon her bed, dressed in their nightclothes. She had agreed to share her room that night, just as a precaution. 

“I needed to know if he was dangerous, even if his lack of sword hand implied otherwise.” Her sister crossed her legs beneath her. “You were right, by the way. I think I carry all the bitterness Bran lacks.” 

“It’s warranted skepticism. Father never liked him.” Sansa reached to her bedside stand for a letter. “A raven came from Last Hearth.” 

“The Umbers?” Her sister took the note and skimmed it quickly. 

“The Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. They’ve been pushed back. Like Eastwatch, Castle Black is lost.” 

Arya sighed. “Does Jon know?” 

“I doubt it, but I dispatched a messenger. He may not find it necessary to consult his family, but I won’t have him think the same of me.” Sansa slipped beneath the furs, and motioned Arya to do the same. 

As she crawled in beside her, Arya asked, “Did you tell him of the position you’d recently given the KIngslayer?” 

“Didn’t seem relevant.” 

Her sister’s mouth twisted slightly, but she didn’t press further. “I don’t recall ever sleeping together when we were little, not like this.” 

Sansa propped her head in her hand to peer down at Arya. “Oh, you just don’t remember. I was very excited to have a sister. Robb and Jon were off playing with their swords and shields, and I couldn’t wait for someone to play dolls and dressup with.” 

“Very sorry it didn’t work out that way.” 

They both giggled quietly, and Sansa rolled over to blow out the candle on the nightstand. She then settled beneath the furs, now grateful for their differences. 

– 

The next morning, she quickly washed her face and brushed her hair. To evoke her mother’s memory, she parted her mane down its center and sectioned each half, fastening the top layers with a leathered comb. A fur-lined, dark grey dress she had sown herself would do well to recall her father, and she finished the look with her needle necklace. 

Sansa broke her fast beside her rigid brother, his eyes barely focused on the oats and honey before him. Impassively he told her she was fearless, as if stating it was sure to snow. Sam, Gilly, and their son joined them as well, and they were a welcome disruption from Bran’s taciturnity. The baby laughed easily, his big eyes obsessed with each of the raisins he touched before delicately placing them in his pink mouth. His joy gladdened her, for raisins would soon be hard to come by. 

Arya brought Jaime Lannister to her once he’d eaten, and together they walked. She sent her siblings ahead, to make an entrance with only the Kingslayer at her side. Her announcement would hold weight this way, she thought. 

The Stark bannermen who had remained at Winterfell already lined the Great Hall when Sansa guided Jaime inside and took her seat at the long table. Bran and Arya were positioned just as they had been yesterday, stoic for different reasons. Jaime stopped at the table’s edge, his chin raised with pride. She hadn’t known it at the time, but Tyrion and Cersei each stood in a similar way. 

Sansa felt the outrage of the Northerners atop her exposed skin. It was hot and overwhelming, and she wondered if Ser Jaime could sense it too. “My friends, I have called you here today because of our guest and comrade. Ser Jaime Lannister rode hard from King’s Landing to deliver news of his sister’s duplicity.” 

“And you believe him?” Lord Glover demanded, standing as he continued. “Every man in this room knows what the word of a Lannister means.” 

“A Lannister councils the Dragon Queen, who our King now backs, and this Lannister saw to my safety when Queen Cersei wanted my head. He’d sworn an oath to my mother and still keeps his vow.” The room collectively erupted in whispers and quiet groans. 

Little, merciless Lyanna Mormont stood next, seething. “And what does the Kingslayer ask of you, Lady Stark?” Though she did not say it, _marriage_ sat upon the tip of her small tongue. 

The girl did not appreciate courtesies, so Sansa did not smile. “He wishes to join our fight, as he had agreed.” She took a silent, deep breath. “We will soon have a war to both the north and the south, my lords. The Watch and the freefolk could not keep the dead and their dragon at bay. They’ve fallen back to Last Hearth.” The men and women of the court gasped. She continued. “Queen Cersei teases Euron Greyjoy with matrimony and brings the Golden Company to our doorstep. For these reasons, I have charged Ser Jaime with the command of my southern host.” 

Lord Royce jumped to his feet. “This is madness, my lady.”

“ _Madness_ is a derogatory term, Lord Royce. You should do well to quell your use of it before the dragons arrive,” Jaime uttered coolly. “I think Lady Stark brilliant and two-steps ahead of our southern foe. Cersei harbors no sympathy for the North, and even if we survive the White Walkers, a winning army will be depleted before she is even forced to fight.”

Royce was unimpressed. “You’d fight your own family?” 

“Half of my family already fights alongside you, my lord.” 

“Your own army, then? I had heard you refused to leave the battlefield when the Dothraki ran your men down and refused again when the Targaryen flew in on her dragon.” 

Sansa looked to Ser Jaime, somewhat stunned. “I assume a dragon is much more terrifying than an elephant army,” she calmly defended, though she could not help speculating if either were more terrifying when accompanied by a herd of wights. “Ser Jaime is a seasoned commander and knows as well as I do that Cersei would rather be queen of the dead than have either King Jon or Queen Daenerys sit on that throne. We could discuss this further, my lords, but my decision has been made.” 

“And what will your brother say of this, my lady?” Lord Manderly asked, his hand smoothing his white beard. He did not stand. 

Ser Jaime answered before she could. “It was your king who requested the alliance. He won’t be pleased with my sister, I suspect, but he’ll welcome my aid. Upon my arrival, I pledged my sword to both Lady Sansa and to the North, and I intend to do all that is necessary to protect her, her people, and the realm.” 

+++


	5. Chapter 5

**Sansa**

The young rider came just after sunrise, and with him, he’d brought news of Jon’s return and with whom he traveled. Again, Sansa was sure to dress befitting her stature as Lady of Winterfell, wearing the same dress and cape Petyr Baelish had seen last, before his warm blood spilled upon the cold, stone floor of the Great Hall. She braided her hair to the side, as she had worn when Ramsey took his final breath.

As requested, Ser Jaime stood beside Sansa as they waited to receive Jon and his queen in the courtyard. Arya had wheeled Bran from his room and now stood with arms behind her back. Sam Tarly had also joined their line, and his wife waited off to the side. Ghost, unbidden, padded to her while they waited and nuzzled sweetly at her hip. She noticed tension set in Ser Jaime’s jaw as he stared at the white direwolf with trepidation, and she allowed herself a small smile before she scratched Ghost behind his ear.

Sansa couldn’t help but remember when their family had received King Robert and Cersei all those years ago. The Starks had stood in a formation not unlike this, wide-eyed and too green to detect the stench of death and chaos in their royal wake.

Something roared from somewhere in the distance, shaking Sansa from her thoughts. Winterfell’s gates opened, and Jon rode in first as a dark shadow – too large to be anything but a dragon – passed overhead. Although frightened, she resisted the impulse to look up to the sky, instead forcing herself to stare straight ahead. Ghost whined and shifted uneasily.

A silver-haired girl upon a white mare rode just behind Jon, more petite than Sansa expected though no less beautiful. Once unhorsed, Jon turned to help his queen, and when his gloved hands lingered a little too long at her waist, Sansa bit her cheek.

“Seven hells,” she muttered unintentionally. _Littlefinger was right_.

Ser Jaime tilted his head in her direction, having noticed as well. “I’d always believed the Stark women to be smarter than the men. Your brother meets that expectation, just as your father had before him.” He did not await a reply and instead moved closer to her.

When Jon finally came to them, Ghost intercepted him first. Hardly able to ignore the large direwolf, Jon bent to speak a soothing word. He then reached for Arya, pulling her into a hug and lifting her from the ground. Though Bran didn’t seem to see him, Jon moved to him next and touched his face in disbelief.

Sansa was last, and Jon glanced at Jaime suspiciously before he kissed her forehead. She embraced him tightly and took small comfort in his familiar form. He smelled of perfume.

With a step back, Jon presented the woman in the coat of white and gray fur. Her hair was pulled back into numerous, intricate braids and curls, a style Sansa had never seen before. “Sister, this is Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen. My queen, allow me to introduce you to Lady Sansa Stark.”

Sansa dipped into a shallow curtsey, her eyes never lowering. “Winterfell welcomes you, Your Grace. I believe you’ve met Ser Jaime Lannister. To my right are my siblings, Arya and Bran.”

As Jon moved to greet Sam, Daenerys smiled. Her cheeks were pink and round, and her eyes were pretty. “Your welcome is much appreciated, Lady Stark. Your brother has done nothing but praise you.” Very much to Sansa’s surprise, she extended a gloved hand, which she took. The grip was firm and warm.

“Kingslayer,” the queen uttered and barely turned toward him. “We hadn’t expected your forces so soon.”

Arya stiffened at Sansa’s side.

“Did our sister send a small troop ahead of the rest?” Tyrion Lannister stepped beside his queen, looking up at Jaime with brow furrowed. With hair wilder than Sansa remembered, he now sported a full beard. It seemed to suit him, though she assumed its purpose was to both hide his fading scar and keep him warm.

Jaime’s eyes gleamed, and he smirked. “Lady Stark has much she wishes to discuss.”

“Does she?” Tyrion then acknowledged her for the first time, his face softening despite his puzzlement. His gaze traveled the length of her before he offered the smallest of grins.

“I’d thought it best you all settle into your rooms and enjoy a small meal. The matters at hand require us all to be well-rested and clear-headed.” Sansa bowed her head slightly. “The Starks welcome your return, Lord Tyrion.”

“It is good to see you, Lady Sansa. You look… well.” He then glanced back at Jaime, uncomfortable. “And, it appears, well-guarded with my brother and your sister to either side. It is a relief to see you back at Winterfell, Lady Arya.”

“Just Arya, my lord.”

Daenerys eyed them warily before introducing her entourage: Missandei of Naath, Ser Jorah Mormont, and Grey Worm of the Unsullied. Lord Varys bowed to the sisters, offering silver-tongued pleasantries Sansa was uninterested in. She knew the Spider had much in common with Littlefinger, though he lacked some of the same slithery traits.

“Gilly?” Sansa called. “Would you be so kind as to show our noble guests to their rooms?” The woman was all smiles before she attempted an adorably terrible curtsey and led the Targaryen and her advisors inside.

Sansa let go of the breath she didn’t realize she held as Ser Davos strolled to her with a handsome, dark-haired stranger at his side. The man couldn’t have been much older than she.

“What are you doing here?” Arya asked him. He only shrugged, and they hugged.

Ser Davos peered at the two with his kind eyes and bowed his head to Sansa. “You are a lovely sight, my lady. It’s an interesting lot we’ve brought you, no?”

“It seems you had left us with few and now we are more, ser.”

Arya touched Sansa’s arm, happier than she’d been in a long while. “This is Gendry. We escaped King’s Landing together.”

“Escaped? If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were one of Robert’s bastards,” Jaime remarked. Sansa instantly saw the resemblance. He was an amalgamation of Robert’s strength and Renly’s beauty.

Gendry’s stare suddenly hardened, and he frowned. “Would you?”

“I’d seen enough to know.”

“Yes, all murdered in the arms of their mothers, weren’t they? I seem to recall it was your _bastard_ who tried to have me killed as well.”

Before he could continue, Davos patted Gendry on his back and motioned to the Keep. “Different wars demand different allies, Ser Jaime. I’ve learned we’ve all had to make peace with the dead.”

As the two men moved out of earshot, Sansa gave a disapproving look to her frowning commander before addressing her sister. “He’s a friend?”

“One I thought I’d lost,” Arya said without looking at her and then took a step forward, singling out another traveler. “He’s supposed to be dead.” Sansa followed her line of sight to where Lady Brienne and her squire walked beside Sandor Clegane. Despite the limp, he hadn’t changed since she’d seen him last, since the day Tyrion had set the Blackwater aflame.

“Welcome home, Lady Brienne.”

The woman warrior bowed. “Thank you, Lady Sansa.” Her bright gaze drifted to Jaime. “You managed to get here quickly.”

“Much easier when one travels light. It is always good to see you, Brienne.” Though only faintly, Ser Jaime’s jaw clenched. Sansa found that interesting.

Clegane grunted. “Little bird escaped her cage.”

“She’s a wolf,” Arya corrected harshly. “Only wolves reside here.”

“They do just that, looks like.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “Glad you both made it home.” The Hound then left them, without a word, just as a wagon full of dragonglass wheeled toward the smithy.

+++

**Jaime**

“You didn’t bring an army.” The statement tumbled from Brienne’s mouth as Podrick helped with her armor, removing each gifted plate as quickly and carefully as possible. And though it didn’t require a keen mind to make the basic assessment, she knew that there was more to his being at Winterfell than he let on. He’d known as soon as she had laid her blue eyes upon him in the courtyard.

Jaime stood in her doorway as men hurried behind him, murmuring and sniggering as they passed. He didn’t care, and it seemed neither did she. When free of her blue steel, Brienne sent Podrick to request a bath and broth to eat. The boy slipped past Jaime with little more than an apology, and Brienne placed her hands on her hips, waiting. She looked tired, irritated, and anxious all at the same time.

“I have vows to fulfill.” Despite its pretentiousness, it was the truth. “I’d pledged to fight the dead.”

“Alone?”

“Not entirely alone.”

She frowned. “Oh. You and Bronn, then?”

Before Jaime could respond, Sandor Clegane stepped into the doorway, peering down at him and smelling foul. His eyes narrowed, but he didn’t bother with a greeting. “Heard they’re serving food in the Great Hall. You interested?”

Brienne smiled tightly as she shook her head. “My thanks, Sandor, but I plan on eating in my room. It’s been a month since I’ve had any real solitude.”

The Hound shrugged and walked away, leaving only his scent behind. Jaime wondered where and when they had first crossed paths, and a dozen unprompted scenarios rapidly played out in his mind’s eye. Had it been cold? Had they shared a tent? A bedroll? Someone his size could make someone like Brienne feel small, even delicate.

Something not unlike jealousy seized his stomach. “I’ve pledged my sword to Sansa,” he blurted. A senseless reflex, Jaime realized, but he had the overwhelming need to tell her, to _sway_ her.

“You what?” Brienne stepped toward him, toeing the threshold of her room. She was so close, he could feel her breath. “What did she do?”

Jaime didn’t have to ask for clarification of which _she_ Brienne spoke of. The question felt like an unexpected crack to his chest, and his lungs ached as a result. Despite being the only person who saw any good in him, Brienne still rightly assumed that there had been a recent offense.

He struggled to respond. What had Cersei done now? What act was so reprehensible _this time_? She hadn’t recently demanded the heads of Tyrion and Sansa, burned hundreds inside the sept, or forced Tommen to leap to his death.

Her transgressions were countless, but this was different. She had betrayed her twin, who she had claimed as her other half. Besides secretly strategizing with a fucking Greyjoy, Cersei had both nearly executed Jaime and had demanded he turn his cheek to an entire kingdom in need. He wanted to make Brienne understand that it was just as Olenna had told him, and he could finally see in Cersei what so many others had already known: his lover, his sister, his wife-in-all-but-name was a monster, a disease.

“She lied,” he stated instead, his voice barely a whisper. Jaime wished to hide from Brienne’s gaze, and he shifted beneath what he thought was her sympathy, her pity, backing away and into the hallway. He looked to her boots, almost ashamed. He’d always been a slow learner, but it was no excuse.

“I’m sorry,” she said lightly and placed her hand on the door. “We don’t choose who we love.” Jaime lifted his stare and saw no judgement, only understanding. “But you did what you thought was right, and I believe that’s what truly matters.” Brienne’s greasy straw hair sat messily to the side, and her plump, unattractive lips had yet to regain their color. He thought he could warm them with his own, force their natural pigment with thirsty kisses.

His cock recalled their bath at Harrenhal before he did. She’d stood unashamed and defiant as the water rolled down her bare, freckled skin. Her muscular frame had retained a softness at her hips, at her breasts, and she had glistened beneath what little light the torches provided - _the warrior made flesh_.

He’d been a fool then. Today, if she allowed him to stay once her iron tub arrived, he would gladly, clumsily wash her hair and help soothe her sore muscles by working them beneath his fingertips. He could take care of her as she once had taken care of him.

Jaime knew her fury and annoyance well, but he longed to hear what sounds her mouth would make with relief, with pleasure.

They waited a moment, perhaps both uncertain if she would invite him inside, and though his body disagreed, Jaime wouldn’t give her the chance. “I’ll see you in the council.”

“If Sansa wishes me there.”

“I’ll ask that she does.” Jaime assured and left Brienne to herself. He began to walk in the direction he thought Sansa’s chambers resided but found his brother in his path, waiting.

“We need to talk,” Tyrion said, his voice a grave tone.

“I don’t see why talk should happen apart from my liege lady and your queen.”

“Your liege lady?” he repeated.

“Yes.” Jaime smiled. “My sister-by-law. Your wife.”

+++


	6. Chapter 6

**Sansa**

She slowly pushed the heavy door to Bran’s room closed and bolted it. The last of the Starks and Samwell Tarly were all present and uncomfortably quiet. Bran’s vacuous stare met her, awaiting her start. Sam had found something interesting on the floor, and Arya looked to Jon, who watched the snowfall through the window. The broken tower loomed just beyond him, having collected a layer of fresh powder.

Sansa knew it was for her to broach the topic of allegiances and heritage, and she wrung her hands. Before she could, Jon spoke.

“You welcomed Jaime Lannister as an advisor?”

“I believe you and your queen had welcomed him. I named him commander.”

Jon whirled to face her with brow wrinkled. “Without my consent.”

“You were well away. You’d left Winterfell and the North to me, and I only acted in our best interest.” She moved closer to him, studying his handsome face. He did not have her father’s eyes. “You should have consulted with _your_ advisors before bending the knee.”

“The North had named me king, and I acted with the authority of one.”

“By throwing your crown into the sea.”

“You haven’t seen what I have. We need her dragons. This war is already lost without them.”

Ire bubbled beneath her skin, and she fisted her hands in her skirt. “The wall has fallen because of of her dragons. Because you had gifted one to the Night King, this war is even more well matched.” She inhaled deeply, in an attempt to calm herself. If she raised her voice, Jon would stop listening. “But I did not wish to speak of mistakes made. There are other pressing matters.” Sansa motioned to Sam and sat in Old Nan’s rocking chair as he placed his thick, leather bound book upon the table and flipped through its pages.

“At the Citadel, I did quite a bit of reading and came upon the following.” Sam pointed to the passage he had shown Sansa not that long ago. “It says here that Prince Rhaegar had annulled his first marriage and married another in Dorne.”

“Aunt Lyanna?”

“A princess of the North and briefly the queen,” Sansa confirmed. She reached for Bran’s hand and clutched it. “Bran. You must tell Jon what you told us.”

Her young brother nodded but did not squeeze her hand in return. “She had died in the birthing bed with a request upon her lips. Father had promised her.”

Sansa could feel a vibration in her bones and looked to her sister. For the briefest of moments, sorrow took hold of Arya’s face. The wind suddenly picked up outside, and it whistled through the window.

“We have reason to believe that Ned Stark had not returned to Winterfell with a bastard in tow,” Sam stated carefully. He placed a hand upon Jon’s arm. “Bran and I have come to the conclusion –”

Jon pulled from his friend. “I am my father’s son for it is he who raised me.”

“If the law of Westeros means anything, your claim is better than that belonging to Daenerys.” When he made eye contact, Sansa continued. “I feel it is important that you know. You deserve to know who you are and that your parents loved one another and loved you, just as our father loved you and as we do still.” She openly trembled now, releasing Bran of her grasp.

Jon stepped toward Sansa and beckoned her to stand. He enveloped her into a hug and kissed her cheek before moving to unbolt the door and leaving them. She was quick to follow, only stopping to throw a cloak atop her shoulders.

Though she’d lost sight of him, she knew where he headed. Her steps were quick, and Sansa ignored those she passed in corridors as she made her way outside the Keep and to the dark staircase. The stone, watchful wolves at the crypt’s entrance appeared to growl at her, as if not to disturb the mournful or the dead.

As she expected, Sansa found Jon before her aunt’s effigy, staring up at it as if seeing it for the first time. She moved to stand beside him and took one of his hands into her own.

“Tywin ordered the execution of Rhaegar’s wife and children. The Kingsguard Father fought in Dorne were keeping watch there because of you.”

“He lied.”

“He knew you didn’t fit King Robert’s narrative and would have threatened not only his claim, but the claim of the Lannisters as well.” She leaned her head against his shoulder. “We need to be smart, smarter than Tyrion and the whole of the Targaryen council. This truth has the potential to change everything.”

“This is the first and last we speak of it, sister.”

Sansa pulled away and turned to face him. “Are you serious?”

“You did well in my absence. You aptly eliminated a traitor and named a seasoned commander.” He offered a proud smile, and it disappeared as quickly as it came. “But you didn’t see it. We were outnumbered, surrounded and surely dead, but then she came. Her dragons burned hundreds.” Adoration crept through his gaze, relaxing his knitted brow. “I recognized Daenerys as queen for her promise of firepower.”

“You recognized Daenerys as queen because you fell in love, Jon. I am not a child nor am I a cretin, and you are a fool to think you are any good at concealing your affections.” His eyes widened, affirming her suspicions. “This will not end well, and we must prepare for the worst.”

Frustration took over his features. “We are preparing for the worst. That is why Daenerys allowed us to dig for dragonglass, why our blacksmiths work day and night to forge new weapons, and why I bent the knee.”

Sansa shook her head, just as angered. “You believe the worst will come from the North, and yet you didn’t think to glance behind. Cersei Lannister has betrayed you, just as I had warned. She sends the Golden Company to… to fuck us.” Jon gaped openly at her as his ill-fated alliance dissolved before his eyes. She lifted her skirt to begin her walk back. “Elephants, mercenaries, Ironborn, and Lannister soldiers will soon charge our gates. We will speak of what I have done to protect us in the conference, but until then, I’ll leave you to your solitude and hope you will come to your senses.”

+++

**Jaime**

Tyrion poured wine before he could suggest he do so. Jaime added another log into the dying hearth.

“And how were your travels?” he asked, lightly, and took his seat.

His brother drank deeply, savoring the taste. “Warmer than yours, I’d assume. Though it is good to see you are alive, what the hell are you doing in the North?”

Jaime wrinkled his forehead with feigned confusion. “Had we not brokered a treaty, dear brother?”

“Yes, a treaty that involved a Lannister army.” Unamused, he nearly swallowed the rest of his cup of wine. “But here you are, greeting us in the courtyard beside Sansa Stark. I can only guess our sweet sister sent you away, had she not?”

“I left.”

“But you are loyal to a fault.”

“To those who merit my loyalty.” Perhaps idiot was indeed engraved on his forehead, for even Tyrion could not believe Jaime had abandoned their sister. He sipped from his own cup and quite liked the young, earthy vintage. “She made fools of us both.”

“Yes, Cersei is particularly adept at that skill.”

“She didn’t fool your wife.”

Tyrion pursed his lips, his eyes full of curiosity. “What did Sansa realize that you and I had not?”

“Our sister’s rage will outweigh any logic. She hopes the Others rip the North apart.”

His face fell. “I believed Cersei had heard our pleas.”

“It seems she’s outplayed us, yet again.”

A placid shrug found Tyrion’s shoulders as he poured again. “I suppose it is my own fault. I’ve always miscalculated both her spite and her paranoia. I am sorry, Jaime. I can only imagine how heartbroken you are.” He drank. He paused, and Jaime could nearly see the wheels in his head turning before he drank again. “But Sansa could not have known Cersei was pregnant when she came to her conclusion.”

Jaime froze. Though he tried his best to keep his face unreadable, he still felt the color all but drain. Tyrion could upend the ground Jaime had gained with Sansa if he wanted.

“It was why I thought she would adhere to the armistice in the first place. Her children were all she cared for…” Tyrion took a moment, as if he were revisiting the words he’d just spoken, and sighed with exasperation. His eyelids closed, and he pinched the bridge of his nose. “And I cannot believe I am now just understanding she’d meant for me to discover her little secret.”

“Cersei’s womb is not of my concern. I am here to protect the kingdom.”

“And to protect both your lover and child, no doubt.” His brother tilted his head in an accusatory manner and scratched his beard.

“Wouldn’t I have remained at her side if that were my intention?” Jaime countered.

“You pledged your knowledge and sword to the Starks for the chance that they may be merciful.”

“Had I?”

“Unless... Sansa does not know?”

“Unless she wills it so, what I have shared with her is not of your concern.”

Tyrion swirled the wine in his cup, focusing on it, not unlike Sansa had just the other night. “You play a dangerous game, Jaime, for she is more her mother than her father.”

“If I recall correctly, it was your wife’s mother who bargained with us both,” he noted sharply.

When he looked up, Tyrion’s pupils finally exhibited the glossiness, and perhaps the chagrin, one would expect to come with three consecutive cups of wine. “You keep calling her my wife, yet I doubt much of the North, let alone _Lady Stark_ , truly agrees. I believe she’d been widowed since I’d seen her last.”

Jaime’s own eyes drifted to the silver brooch which hung haphazardly upon Tyrion’s tunic, a strain on black fabric. He hadn’t expected such irritation, from either of them. “And you now wear titles of both murderer and Hand of the Queen. Much has changed for us all.”

Taken aback, he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “You were never one for politics, Jaime. Why the sudden interest?”

“If we Lannisters plan on surviving this war, wouldn’t it be wise to make amends? I know you had treated Sansa kindly when she was in your care, and I doubt she will forget.”

Tyrion tossed his head back and finished his wine before he hopped from the chair. “I wish you’d speak plainly.”

“Was your marriage annulled?”

Clearly irked, his little brother narrowed his eyes. “You must ask your Lady Stark if she had sought its dissolution.” When Jaime only grinned, Tyrion scoffed. “I love you, Jaime. I loved you when you were terribly stupid enough to listen to and defend our viper sister, and I love you now as this misguided patron.” He did not say goodbye upon his exit.

 _I always knew you were the stupidest Lannister_ , Cersei whispered from nowhere. It took all his strength not to flinch.

+++


	7. Chapter 7

**Sansa**

“I need to speak with you, my lady,” Jaime Lannister said with a hushed, hurried tone. He’d come straight to her, gently taking her arm and guiding her away from the conversation with Lord Royce. Sansa smiled an apology as they strolled to the farthest corner of what once was her father’s office.

“Do not be so familiar, ser,” she muttered and cooly slipped from his grasp. “What is it that you must share?”

His mouth made a fine line, and he appeared as if he might burst. “I had not been entirely forthcoming.”

She defied the urge to roll her eyes. “And you think to tell me of this now?”

“Lady Sansa,” Tyrion Lannister called as he stepped inside. He had changed his clothes and washed his face, and it seemed he was very pleased with himself for doing so. “Would you do me the honor of sitting beside me?”

With a look between the brothers, comprehension came over her, and she prayed the information Tyrion had of Jaime was not damning. “My lord, you flatter me. ” Her once husband had announced his allegiance with little more than a question. _Dragons before Lions_. She speculated if he favored wolves to lions as well.

“I’m afraid I would have to insist my sister sit beside me, Lord Tyrion,” Jon interjected. She hadn’t even noticed his entry, too flustered. “I’ve missed her terribly. You understand.” Jon glanced knowingly to her before pulling two chairs from the table. “Ser Jaime, if you would be so kind to join us on this end.”

Sansa thought she saw relief pass briefly over Jaime’s face as they sat beside one another. He grinned obnoxiously to conceal it and watched as her sworn sword joined as well. “I had asked Lady Brienne to attend. I hope that is to your liking.”

“It is my preference to have more women in councils.” She glanced past Jon to see Ser Davos settle in his seat as Brienne moved to stand beside Lord Royce. Not a few minutes passed before Daenerys and her council joined them at the table. While the queen sat between her Hand and Missandei, Ser Jorah and Grey Worm stood. “I hope your quarters are satisfactory, Your Grace.” Sansa folded her hands atop the wooden table, grazing the edge of the large map before them.

“They are. You are more than kind, Lady Stark. Shall we begin?”

“Your Grace,” Jon started, “Ser Jaime arrived with news of treachery. It is the reason he is here so soon.” He motioned for Jaime to tell of Cersei and her acquisition of the Golden Company, which he did efficiently. Their guests, besides Tyrion, appropriately showed their disbelief.

“She used Tyrell gold to purchase the contract,” Jaime added and bowed his head slightly in the Targaryen’s direction. “It is unfortunate your dragon did not burn _those_ wagons.”

Daenerys’ face remained still. “Yes. Unfortunate.”

“I had ordered a battalion to the Twins, where my Uncle Edmure currently sits. Lady Waynwood and Lord Reed are stationed there.” Sansa felt Jon’s eyes upon her but ignored him. Instead, she stood and pulled a Stark marker from her skirts. “As you all well know, an army cannot quickly pass into the Riverlands without the crossing.” She placed the wolf upon the Twins. “Ser Jaime and I agree that we must send a garrison as soon as we are able. He will command a southern host to keep the Golden Company at bay and far from us.”

Jaime nodded and also stood, placing lion markers upon Riverrun, King’s Landing, and Highgarden as Sansa set wolves atop Winterfell, White Harbor, and Moat Cailin. “The Golden Company is made up of sellswords – men who know how to fight and are paid well for it. We need more than farmers and fisherman to meet them in the field. If you would permit, I believe your Dothraki along with the Knights of the Vale would do well to defend in the Riverlands. Afterall, their horses will be of little use here once the snow deepens.”

“Why are you really here, Jaime?” Tyrion interrupted. Though his eyes held remorse, his face did not betray him. He really wanted to know, and he wanted an audience to bear witness.

_He’s demonstrating his loyalty_ , Sansa thought. She forged a smile and answered in Jaime’s stead. “I named your brother a commander in the Northern army, my lord. His skill and insight are nearly unparalleled.” She then spoke over her shoulder. “Lady Brienne, would you not say Ser Jaime knows the Riverlands better than most?”

“I would, my lady.”

“And Lord Royce, hadn’t you informed me of Jaime Lannister’s accomplishments while Lord Commander of our enemy’s army?”

“I had, Lady Stark.”

“Queen Daenerys well knows he remained with his men despite being outmatched. He faced a dragon and a Dothraki horde on an open field and lived to tell the tale.” Sansa shrugged. “Ser Jaime has pledged his fealty. Why would I not invite him to my table?”

Tyrion’s mouth skewed, bitterly. “Because our sister is with child. It is why I was convinced Cersei had agreed to our terms in the first place.”

“Ah.” Though Sansa’s stomach flipped, her spine steeled and face became a porcelain mask. A glance to Daenerys indicated his queen had not known until now either. “Regardless of your position as Hand to a queen, I’m afraid you underestimated a woman, Lord Tyrion. Believing her soft heart would lend you her ear, you unknowingly made the same mistake my father had. That misstep proved to be his undoing.” Sansa sat back down, folding her hands again. “Unlike Lannisters, Freys, and Boltons, Starks do _not_ murder children. If the babe should live, I had promised no harm would come to it. Are there any other grievances you require to speak of, my lord? Or can we continue?”

He held her gaze a moment, perhaps impressed. Perhaps miffed. She refused to look away, and before he spoke, she thought she read something else in his stare. “Please go on, Lady Stark.”

A heat found her cheeks. She turned to Jon. “Brother, do you concur with our approach?”

“I don’t think we have much of a choice.” As Jon began to speak of Last Hearth and of their plans for the North, Jaime retook his seat as well. He looked to her with gratitude before he gave an unreadable sideways glance to Brienne.

+++

**Jaime**

“Lady Sansa –”

She gingerly raised a hand to silence him and whispered, “You already know what I am to say, Ser Jaime. I believe parentage is how we got into this mess.” She offered nothing more. The grown girl, much more her father than Tyrion thought, stood from the table to follow Jon Snow.

The room cleared quickly, which he was glad for. Jaime didn’t need their judging eyes upon him for he could already feel Brienne’s on the back of his head. Sullenly, he stepped away from the table and its map to turn and face her well-earned disappointment.

“Congratulations.”

“Don’t.”

Although she desperately tried to hide it, Brienne was bothered. Her chin quivered, and her eyes glittered. “You are to be a father again.”

“I wasn’t a father the first three times.” Guilt flooded his chest, and he thought he might drown of it. “It means nothing.”

Her head tilted doubtfully. “Come now, we both know that isn’t true.”

His words came with an unintentional harshness. “Cersei took what she needed of me. My claim was lost as soon as the seed quickened in her belly.” He was angry, ashamed, and perhaps angry he was ashamed. “You know what I am, better than anyone. Don’t feign bewilderment when I act in accordance.”

“I do no such thing. You simply –” A horn blew from somewhere outside the castle and halted Brienne’s words. Before he could ask, she explained. “It’s a signal, same as they used at Castle Black. One for friends. Two for enemies. Three for Others.”

A chill crawled up the back of Jaime’s neck as he waited for a second. She started for the door, and he followed. “Where are you going?”

“To Lady Sansa. Is that not where you belong as well, ser?”

Unsure if he should keep up, Jaime slowed his pace and allowed Brienne to get ahead. Torches had already been lit in the corridor, and the flames danced upon her blue steel as she left him. She appeared afire, and the illusion caused a queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“You should be careful with that one. She’s likely to shove you in the dirt.” Seemingly out of thin air, Arya Stark joined him on his walk to the Great Hall. She kept her hands clasped behind her back but wore a knowing smirk upon her lips.

“I am all too aware. You were listening?”

“Not just to you and your Lady Brienne, but to the war council as well. Sansa’s good at this.” The girl walked so lightly, Jaime could barely register her steps. Her energy, however, he sensed. Similar to her sister, the assassin kept a winter storm beneath her arrogance, and as if summoned by his thoughts, Arya’s blizzard suddenly showed, smacking him coldly upon the face. “For all she’s done, you must understand Cersei deserves no mercy.”

His phantom hand twitched. “No. I don’t believe she does.”

“As long as we are in agreement, Ser Jaime, I have no quarrel with you.”

“A relief for I am in no mood to to be made an example of.”

She cocked a thick eyebrow and smiled openly. Either his presence was growing on the tiny murderess, or the wolf enjoyed tormenting him.

They arrived in the Hall to see two exhausted men in heavy furs. The burlier of the duo, a wildling if Jaime could guess, had piercing blue eyes and a shock of red for hair and beard. The other, he barely recognized as the mythical Beric Dondarrion. Dozens of tales had been spun since he’d left Kings Landing so long ago, many of which claimed he could not die – could not be hung, run through with a sword, or burned. A missing eye and rope scars upon his neck lent credence to the rumors.

Arya’s thoughts were his own. “He’s supposed to be dead too.”

“I suppose, these days, we all could be considered dead men,” he muttered in response.

Jon Snow motioned the two men to warm by the fire as he called for mulled wine, cheese, and bread. The wildling surveyed the room before joining his king, no doubt taking note of each new face. A repugnant grin spread upon his mouth when he caught sight of Brienne, and Jaime felt the same, irritating pang of jealousy. He quickly moved to join Sansa where she stood beside Tyrion and the Dragon Queen, and Arya stopped beside Brienne and Clegane.

“Tormund. Ser Beric. Tell me of what you saw,” the Targaryen asked with a hint of what Jaime thought to be alarm in her voice.

“We were atop the Wall when it fell.” Beric sipped the wine as soon as it was in his hand.

Tormund chugged his own, with no care of its temperature, and wiped his stained mouth with the back of his sleeve. “The Night King rode your dead dragon – white as snow, spewing blue fire, and burning all in its path.”

“We are aware the Night’s Watch fell back to Last Hearth to regroup with the Umbers’ forces,” Sansa confirmed, her hands intertwined tightly before her. “I haven't received a Raven since, but that was just days ago.”

The wildling bit a hunk of black bread and chewed through his next words. “We were at Last Hearth and rode ahead, though many will not be far behind. Lord Commander Crow ordered those who could not fight to seek refuge here.”

She abruptly turned and left the hall with Arya close behind. There would soon be hundreds more mouths to feed, and her newest task was to quickly prepare the castle for asylum seekers. Jaime awaited either commands or questions from her brother, but they did not come.

Tyrion spoke instead. “It seems the war to the north comes sooner than we anticipated.”

“What do you advise, Jon Snow?” Daenerys asked. She was adept at veiling fear, but Jaime could still detect its odor.

The room was thick with it.

Grimly, Jon nodded. “We must send dragonglass north and our southern host on its way.” He then looked to Jaime. “If you and your men remain here, you may be unable or unwilling to leave.”

Beric Dondarrion noticed him for the first time, his only eye squinting slightly. “The Lord of Light truly works mysteriously, Ser Jaime, for it is a surprise to see you here and away from your sister.”

Tormund peered at him stupidly, as if suddenly adding puzzle pieces. “This is the sisterfucker?”

The Hound snorted, but before Jaime could even sneer, the horn blew again.

Once. Twice. Three times.

+++


	8. Chapter 8

**Jaime**

“There was nothing behind us,” Tormund Giantsbane claimed and downed his wine as he followed Jon Snow to the door. Brienne, Dondarrion, and Clegane fell in line behind him, and Jaime appeased his urge to do the same.

Daenerys stepped before the King in the North, placing a firm hand on his chest. “You needn’t go,” she said as the group stepped past. Jaime took a moment to glance behind and witnessed Snow gently brush her hand to the side. He would have to inform Sansa that, as of yet, the dragon didn’t have complete hold of her brother.

“Ser Jaime,” Brienne called, her tone hurried but strong. “You will keep to my left, and you will not stray from that position.”

“You may now be Lord Commander of the little bird’s army but know when the woman speaks true. The dead don’t tire.” Sandor Clegane laughed bitterly, “How good are you with that arm? Shouldn’t you stay behind?”

“Good enough,” Jaime lied. He needed to see for himself, needed to see how these beings fought, how they thought – if they could think!

Jon Snow walked ahead of them into the courtyard, pulling his sword – Valyrian steel – from its scabbard. Robert’s bastard, with warhammer in hand, matched the king’s stride, and Jaime thought he noticed Brienne flinch. Seemed she too thought the boy a replica of Renly. He buried the thought.

“How many?” Jaime loudly demanded of any man on the castle walls.

The boy holding the horn had bubble-like, red cheeks and wide, surprised eyes. He stuttered, “Uh, um, looks to me there are twenty, Commander.”

“Reconnaissance,” Jaime surmised. “The Night King means to spy. And to taunt.”

After ordering several foot soldiers to join them, Jon Snow turned his head to look at Jaime. “He knows me, knows Bran, and means to taunt us both. They will come to Winterfell before they march south.”

“Well, it is kind of you to introduce me to some of his army, my lord.” Jaime smiled. “It’s always good to know your rivals intimately.”

“I could make a remark, Lannister, but there is no sweetness to low-hanging fruit,” the Hound cracked. “Let’s get this over with.”

The gates opened, and their small team marched into the snow, boots sinking with every step. Jaime pulled Widow’s Wail from his scabbard as Brienne pulled Oathkeeper from hers. She and the sword both glittered with the sun, it’s light thinly bouncing from her pale hair and iridescent steel before it retreated behind overcast, gray clouds.

About a half a league away, the wights appeared to be waiting for them, flanking what he could only assume to be a White Walker. Even at this distance, he could see the wretch was as thin as a rail, and its eyes glowed ghostly blue. The dead quickened their pace as the gates closed behind the living.

“If we kill the Other, the wights will fall as well,” Ser Beric claimed and lit his fiery sword with the scrape of his hand.

“Now we know what we aim for,” Brienne stated confidently and readied her body, gracefully sliding into a fighting stance. She glanced to him, now at her left shoulder. “Remain at my side, Ser Jaime,” she reiterated. “I will not have my lady’s commander die while I am near.”

“I would not wish to besmirch your honor in such a way, Lady Brienne.”

The wind kicked up, as if the monsters indeed brought winter with them, and the group was enveloped in a snow flurry. The dead and the living crashed into one another, steel against frigid steel. Jaime could feel the blood in his veins as it sung with exhilaration, terror, and pride. He could not recall when last he rightly felt proud. Perhaps when Myrcella had admitted knowing their family secret or when Tommen had asked for his advice.

_No_ , he thought. _When Brienne attempted to return Oathkeeper..._

Jaime backhanded the skeleton before him with his golden hand and followed with a cross strike of his sword, slicing head from body. Despite being severed, the bones rattled as he stepped over them. Another corpse barreled toward him. He blocked its dagger with his gauntlet and used his shoulder to knock the creature to the ground. Jaime then sunk his blade into the dead man’s chest and twisted.

The Other fought just to his right and nearly knocked Jon Snow ten feet from where he stood. As if it could sense his movements, the Walker spun and cracked its steel across Jaime’s, and he vibrated within his armor. Widow’s Wail flew from his hand, sinking into the snow as his knees did the same. Jaime lifted his head and gazed into the monster’s deathly blue eyes. Time slowed as the creature raised its frosty sword, intent on slicing him in two.

Since he’d first seen the black dragon, Jaime had assumed he’d been destined to burn. To be cut down by ice instead was a disgusting surprise. Did dead Ned laugh? Did his father? Could he have made reparations? Or would failure indeed be his legacy?

Jaime did not blink as the frozen steel fell.

He did, however, recoil when it was blocked.

Oathkeeper held the Other’s sword at bay, and Brienne stared at the thing, panting. With cloak lost somewhere during the battle, she nearly glowed in her blue armor. The White Walker shrieked an unholy sound as it turned its focus to her. It rotated its strike in an attempt to slip past her Valyrian blade, but she was faster. A parry. A lunge. Brienne met it blow by blow, a beauty blessed with speed and power.

Jaime reached for his sword and stood in time to cut the arm off a wight deadset on attacking Brienne from behind. He didn’t get the chance to strike again, for the skeleton instantly tumbled to the ground when Brienne stabbed its maker through the stomach. The beast exploded into thousands of icy pieces.

+++

**Sansa**

Sansa sought solace in the heat of her bath, isolated from talks of war, the dead, dragons, and accords. Despite scrubbing her skin with hope of alleviating her worry, her mind would not stop wandering, would not stop stressing over the battles to come, both the tangible and mental. Since her return to the North, she’d made moves, both small and noteworthy: the alliance with the Eyrie, the preparation of Winterfell, Lord Baelish’s execution, the soldiers in the Neck, Ser Jaime’s appointment… The list went on, and the kingdom would surely notice.

Players of the game would have already noticed.

Tyrion had been a player since she’d known him, one Lord Baelish had obviously fretted over. Why else frame him twice, once with a dagger and once with a necklace?

_First to start a war and later to sell me._

For a brief moment, she and Tyrion had been accidental allies, and to have said she was dismayed by how coldly he had treated her would have been an unexpected understatement. He’d always been kind and had defended her, even when it was unwise to do so. And although he’d had no choice in marrying her, on their wedding night, she distinctly remembered drunken lust in his eyes. He’d wanted her, as most men did. Had Tyrion been more the immoral imp she’d expected, he could have taken her maidenhead then and there, and she would have allowed it. Had she insisted, perhaps she would have never been sold to the Boltons.

Or maybe it all would have been for naught, and she’d still have been both Ramsey’s plaything and executioner. She shook her head harshly in an attempt to forget those ill thoughts. There was no use in ghostly walks on paths not taken.

Sansa was a Stark, the Lady of Winterfell, and not a silly girl.

She sighed. Her name only served as a reminder of the need for alliances, and because of her gender, she could not avoid the topic of marriage forever. If she survived these wars, those who did not perish would seek her hand to gain both power and favor in the North. They’d want her name. Her land. Her claim. Her children.

Her blood.

Sansa closed her eyes, but her attentions unconsciously returned to Tyrion, the tambour of his voice, and the way her title had hastily rolled on his tongue. He had a simple certainty about him, dangerous yet soothing. His black leathers were quite handsome, and his beard, she thought, fit his face nicely. Her teeth caught her bottom lip, and she pictured Tyrion ogling her as he had long ago.

But the semantics of having relations with a dwarf confused her. Was it a perversion to even ponder the thought? To imagine Tyrion placing a soft kiss upon her mouth, upon her throat?

A slow exhale followed a deep inhale.

_Tears aren’t a woman’s only weapon..._

“Lady Sansa,” Tyrion’s voice called from the hallway as he knocked upon her chamber door. A second passed before she realized she hadn’t dreamt it. “May I have a word?”

“A moment, please.” She quickly crawled out of her iron tub and toweled her skin haphazardly before wrapping herself in a thick robe and freeing her hair from the comb she’d pinned it with. The bent curls cascaded over her right shoulder, and she tried to catch her breath, hoping he’d believe the hot bath had caused the heat in her cheeks.

“Are you decent?”

“Yes,” she rasped, annoyed with her own voice. As the door swung open, she moved to the chair at her vanity, hoping she looked more relaxed than she felt.

“My apologies, my lady. I didn’t realize…”

“They’re unnecessary, my lord.” Sansa bid him entry. “You may close the door.”

Tyrion did as she said, and his hands clenched into fists at his sides. Clearly, he was just as nervous as she, and it provided her some respite. Sansa tried to nonchalantly smooth her hair, though pretending to be uninterested while hyper aware of her movements made it difficult.

“I came to apologize for my behavior in the council. My brother has never betrayed me, and it was unkind of me to think he would do so now.”

“Families are fickle things.”

“Mine, perhaps most of all.”

She thought of her father and of her Aunt Lyanna but would not allow her smile to waver. “My lord, you only mean to protect your queen.” Sansa noted a flicker in his light eyes, something she’d seen in Jon’s as well, and nearly rolled her own. “You love her.” Tyrion’s jaw dropped, but she elaborated before he could protest. “I understand. The young beauty of an all-but-extinct family inspires hearts, commands armies, and rightfully lends herself to both song and heartache.”

The corner of Tyrion’s mouth rose ever so slightly. “Are we still speaking of Daenerys?” She blushed and tightened the robe at her chest, suddenly very conscious of how improper she must look. He’d knowingly caught her off guard and boldly stepped closer. “I think it’s foolish to not be a _little_ in love with Daenerys, just as it’s foolish not to admire a woman’s strength.”

Sansa’s embarrassment quickly transformed into irritation. She nearly scoffed. “Yes, because we are such fragile things otherwise.”

“You misunderstand me.”

“No, I don’t believe I do. You’re a romantic. Ambitious, but a romantic nonetheless.” She stood and moved to her small table. A carafe of red awaited her, and she poured two cups. “Both our brothers are also romantics, and because of this, none of you are difficult to discern.” She sat and motioned him to join.

“If I had been a romantic, I would have left Kings Landing long before I was tried for murder.”

“I named you an _ambitious_ romantic, my lord.”

“My name is _Tyrion_ , Sansa. We are at the very least that familiar.” He cracked a smile before climbing into his chair. “Though our current conversation tells me we may be more familiar than even that.”

“Do my observations distress you, Tyrion?” she questioned. Instead of answering, he took a long drink from his cup. “Do I distress you?”

At that, he laughed. She thought it uneasy. “No. It pleases me to see you able to speak your mind. You were denied that particular luxury last I saw you.” His mouth formed a line as he thought of what next to say. “I am very sorry I could not protect you.”

“My lord, you couldn’t even protect yourself.”

He balked at her frankness. “Perhaps. However, despite our arranged marriage, I took my vow seriously.”

Tyrion’s frustration emboldened her. She crossed her legs, revealing a bare shin and calf, and reached for her wine. “How seriously?” She sipped and stared and revelled in his immediate discomfort. “You know, Jaime and I had spoken of vows.”

With a blink, disappointment appeared on his face. “Had you?”

“Though even he recognizes their importance, he is suspicious of them.” She tucked a curl behind her ear. “A vow can unite families, save lives.”

His gaze found the depths of his cup. “A vow between Lannister and Stark could alleviate some of the tensity here at Winterfell. Your people are not entirely welcoming of the queen, in spite of Jon’s submission, and I’m certain they were not pleased with your appointment of Jaime.”

“The North is also known to be suspicious. It remembers well.”

“Yes, the North remembers.”

“I remember you treated me kindly.”

“It was the right thing to do.” Another swallow of wine, and Tyrion’s cup was empty. He placed it atop her table, and she moved to quickly fill it.

“I was not as kind.”

“You were a prisoner.” He shrugged. “I beg your pardon, but I’m afraid I require your honesty. You are searching for my blessing, are you not?”

“Your blessing?”

“Sansa Stark does not require the permission of any man, let alone a dwarf, but I treated you as well as I could, and you feel you owe me a debt.” He glanced at his wine but did not touch it. Instead, he stared at her with his tired eyes. “You do not owe me anything, my lady.”

Aghast, she couldn’t help her repulsion. “You believe I wish to marry your brother?”

“Jaime is the elder son of House Lannister, handsome, and a devotee of love. It would be a smart match.”

“My lord, in the light of the Seven, I may already be married.”

His brow folded upon itself. For the first time since she’d known him, Tyrion Lannister was speechless. She’d finally caught him off guard.

“Who alive is to say our marriage was not consummated? Lord Varys? He is your friend, is he not? And Lord Baelish’s charred bones lie in a traitor’s grave besides those belonging to Ramsay Bolton.” Sansa set her chalice beside his. “Of course, this all depends on how you and I wish to retell our tale.”

Tyrion’s mouth twisted with thought, and his eyes gleamed like Jaime’s had. “Had you sought to sweep me off my feet? I am rather light, so I suppose the task seemed easy enough, but I think I would wish for more flourish if it were to happen again.”

“I am no longer a romantic, my lord, and I am sorry for it. I was forced to be pragmatic.”

“You were a child.”

“Strife cares not for age.”

His annoyance returned, and he placed a hand upon his chest as emphasis. “You want to call _this_ your husband? I’m sure you know what that entails.”

“You will never hurt me.” Her words rung more a command than an assurance.

“I’m capable of terrible deeds, Sansa. I murdered my father...”

“That was justice.”

“And the woman I loved.”

Sansa blinked. “Why?”

“Twice, she betrayed me: first as a witness for my prosecutor and second as his whore.” He looked to the floor, ashamed. “Apologies, my lady. My admission may have been improper.” His hand reached for his wine again. At the very least, Sansa had convinced him to stay. “Despite your request, I believe it would be even more improper to lie.”

Tyrion Lannister was a good man, she knew, and only continued to prove wrong those who thought otherwise. “Then we needn’t lie.” She glanced to her chalice. Finishing the carafe before stating her offer could dull her senses, but she thought better of it. If Sansa wished to make a decision, she’d rather be of sound mind. “I assume you know the Tully words, Tyrion.”

“Of course.”

“We could honor the vows we recited in the Sept that day and accept our duty to the kingdom by doing so.” Sansa forced herself to meet his gaze, her skin humming. “We could choose to be family. We can choose to trust one another.”

He smiled, doubtfully. “Have you spoken to your brother of this?”

She could almost hear Cersei laughing at her from somewhere in the chamber, mocking them both, but she ignored it. Tyrion believed Jon trustworthy, and she knew that was why he had reached out to them in the first place. Sansa could be the bridge that truly connected them, could be what solidified some sense of loyalty, and, if ever necessary, could complicate Tyrion’s relationship with his dragon queen.

Sansa decided then that she would protect Jon, as her father had before her. She would carry his vow in her heart and protect the Starks by any means necessary. “Neither your queen nor the King in the North were invited into my bed, Tyrion. I am, however, inviting you.”

+++


	9. Chapter 9

**Jaime**

He rotated his sore wrist before bringing the mulled wine to lips. Jaime drank deeply with hope of dulling both the ache of battle and the cold within his chest, still unsure of what he had witnessed when Brienne’s sword obliterated the Other. From ice the monster had come and to ice it had returned, proof magic had infiltrated Westeros, and the world was not as it once seemed.

“Missed a scuffle, had I?” Bronn grinned and took the seat nearest him. The red wildling and the Hound also sat at the table in silence, quietly nursing pains of their own. “Lucky you had your lady knight to protect you.”

Tormund abruptly turned his head. “ _Your_ lady knight?” Though Jaime refused to acknowledge it, his suspicions had been correct: the wilding fancied Brienne. “What makes her yours?”

 _That great cow?_ Cersei mocked. He could almost feel her hot, wine-soaked breath at his ear.

“It’s Lannister gold that sits at her hip,” the Hound stated and swallowed more of his wine. Jaime found his stare peculiar.

Bronn, never one to shy away provocation, then added, “Lannister armor. A Lannister squire…”

“You bought her?”

Offended, Jaime rebuked instinctively, “You’re an idiot if you think either Brienne or her loyalty can be bought.”

“She’s loyal to you, then?” Tormund was quick to counter.

“Brienne is loyal to her oaths and to the Stark sisters.”

_Fuck loyalty._

Podrick arrived at their corner table to replace the empty carafe with another. He then placed a modest plate of cheese and dried fruit between the men as well. “Is there anything else you might need, Lord Commander?” the squire asked Jaime with a smile spread across his mouth.

Tormund leaned forward, resting his burly upper body upon his elbows. “You’re a Lannister, boy?”

He shook his head. “My family has served the Lannisters for generations. I was Lord Tyrion’s squire for a time, before I came into the service of m’lady.”

The wildling again spoke to Jaime. “And that’s your brother, the half-man?”

“Hand of the Dragon Queen,” he corrected sharply.

Bronn faked a frown as he poured himself a cup of red, the liquid nearly spilling from the brim. “Podrick’s good knight delivered Ser Jaime to his father at the behest of Lady Stark – the _dead_ Lady Stark, I mean. Two o’ them spent weeks together. Rumor is, she kept our golden boy on a short leash.” He patted Jaime on the shoulder, but when met with a glare, Bronn raised his hands in defense. ”Didn’t she?”

“You know her well.” Tormund shoved something into his mouth and chewed. “But your shiny gold means nothing with the Long Night upon us.”

Jaime deliberately shrugged. “I don’t know. The sword may be useful. The armor as well.”

“Hmpf, shame you were too distracted by your sister to recognize true beauty. That woman has it all: strength, fierceness – ”

“Chivalry.”

Tormund’s eyes widened before he leaned back again. Jaime suspected he’d never heard the word before now.

“Honor and truth matter to Brienne. You obviously know nothing of her.”

“Seven bloody hells,” the Hound grunted as he kicked his feet up onto an empty chair. “If one of you don’t fuck Brienne of fucking Tarth, I will do it for you.”

Jaime scowled at his lewdness. “You speak of a highborn lady, Clegane. Mind your tongue.”

“That woman bit my ear clean off. I can speak of her however I damn-well please.” He narrowed his ugly eyes. “I know firsthand that she could kill all three of us without breaking stride, and I would much rather face her again than listen to you cunts cry about which she would rather fuck.”

“Fuckin’ her would indeed be a thrill,” Bronn commented and grinned wickedly at Podrick, who had turned a bright shade of red.

“Shut your damn mouths,” Jaime demanded, louder than he had intended, clutching his goblet as anger rose in his chest. The table looked to him, startled by his outburst though it was justified. Except for maybe Podrick, none of these men understood Brienne at all. She’d been gentle, soft, and careful when she’d caught his feverish form in the bath at Harrenhal, and she’d been brave to trust him since then. Neither her strength nor stature made Brienne a knight. “I will not allow Lady Brienne to be spoken of as such.”

“Why not? Have you any claim to her, Lannister?”

“No man can claim her, Hound. She would not allow it.”

Clegane, still unimpressed, snickered, “I doubt that.” He slid his empty goblet to Podrick, who quickly refilled it. “Would you agree, squire? Would your Maid of Tarth be unwilling?”

Pod carefully returned the cup. “We forget women yearn, just as men do. For the right man, I think m’lady would be eager.” He looked to Jaime again and bowed his head. “She’s the most noble person I’ve ever met, m’lord, and it is because she loves, whole-heartedly.” With that, Podrick Payne left.

A silence overtook them, as if the four seated men needed time to contemplate the boy’s words. Their reflection did not last long, for the wildling insisted on ruining it.

“The boy acts as if we don’t understand women,” Giantsbane snorted. “Freefolk know of love, better than you southerners ever will.” He poured himself another goblet-full of wine. “Freedom is love, just as love is freedom. Here you are all too concerned with duty and politics. You aren’t free.”

_Fuck loyalty._

+++

**Sansa**

Sansa didn’t want to rouse from slumber, but the morning seemed to whisper, welcoming her as she lazily woke, somehow both rested and tired. With eyes closed, she could still feel the night’s intimacies upon her sated skin.

When finally she opened her eyes, she was startled to see her sister above her, disappointment heavy upon her brow. Sansa’s mouth opened, with every intention to emote… an apology? A rationale? How could she explain? She did not and would not know, for Tyrion stirred, and when she glanced back at her sister, Arya had already gone.

“Sleep well, my lady?” he asked gruffly, still not fully awake. “Your featherbed is a welcome respite from the agony of the cold.”

She shifted to face Tyrion, her pillow soft against her cheek. “Winterfell offers more than featherbeds, my lord.”

“Indeed it does.” He chuckled at the ceiling. “I do hope I thanked you enough for your hospitality.”

Her teeth found her lip as she remembered his mouth upon her. “I had always heard Lannisters pay their debts. I’m afraid you may still be indebted to me.” With that, finally Tyrion opened his eyes. Sansa wondered if she should show affection by sweeping the tangled curls from his forehead, but instead, she crawled from her bed and reached for a light robe, wrapping herself quickly. “We have much to get done.”

“Yes, we do.” Tyrion sat up to watch her. He appeared so small in her bed, in her parents’ bed, almost lost. “Before we face the day, I did want to inform you of something, something I’d every intention of sharing last night before… Well, since he is your brother, I think it important that you know Jon and Daenerys have been –”

“Stark men are not particularly known for keeping secrets.” The lie was easy.

He frowned. “They may very well be in love.”

“Love is for children.” Unbidden, the way her mother and father would look upon the other came to Sansa’s thoughts. “And for those lucky enough to grow into it.” To distract herself, she attempted to smooth her mussed hair.

“Perhaps, but despite his bending his knee, your people still recognize Jon as king.” Tyrion glanced to her table. “Is there still wine? I would think better with a cup.”

“You don’t need wine before midday.”

“My wife again for no more than an evening and already telling me what to do.”

“Do you not enjoy it?” she asked. Her cheeks burned, but she spoke without shame, “When you thirst for wine, you are welcome to drink of me.”

Awed by her bawdy inference, Tyrion’s jaw dropped slightly. “I do think those are the most delicious words a woman has ever spoken to me.”

 _When compared to the paid words uttered by whores?_ Sansa wanted to ask but did not. She provided a small smile instead.

“The Imp’s Delight,” he added.

Though she did not know what he meant, she felt each word simmer upon her skin and tried not to dwell on his comment. “I can call for food and instruct that your items be moved into my quarters, if that is to your liking. Though, I do understand if you require your space. I remember you keeping late hours.”

“Or we could lazily lie in bed for another hour.” He grinned mischievously, and Sansa thought his eyes twinkled.

She, however, wouldn’t entertain the notion. Sansa moved to her door and opened it with hopes of an awaiting maid, but there Arya stood, still angry.

“Sister,” Sansa asked, “if you could request breakfast to be delivered to my chambers, I would be most grateful.”

“For two?” she snapped. Though Arya had learned the art of lying and could usually hide her feelings, her rage danced in her large eyes and set her jaw.

“Yes, thank you.” Sansa then shut the door and whirled about, only to see her disheveled reflection in the vanity mirror. She didn’t see her mother staring back, but rather a woman akin to Margaery or Cersei, someone Petyr Baelish would have been proud of. A chill rolled up her spine.

“Your sister does not approve.” Already with goblet in hand, Tyrion had risen. Before he could pour himself wine, she moved the carafe from his reach. “I cannot say I blame her. You were rash to offer this union.”

She bristled. “When it comes to matters of my flesh, my sister has no say. No one does.”

“Yes, of course.”

A beat, and she changed the subject. “I can have a larger desk brought in. You need only ask.”

“It’s all right, Sansa. I know this is awkward.” He craned his neck to gaze up at her, somber. “You are so damn tall,” he sighed, a hint of amusement laced through his tone.

She recalled a time, long ago, when Tyrion’s hateful sister had insisted only fear secured loyalty, but she had silently disagreed. _I will make them love me_ , she’d promised herself, knowing even then that fear could not soothe a kingdom. Now here Tyrion stood, barely at her breast, in search of something. Mayhaps approval or purpose.

_I could make him love me._

Sansa kneeled before him so their heights matched more closely and looked at him from beneath her lashes. “Does this suit you, husband?” She carefully placed her hands at the collar of his tunic, lightly taking hold of the fabric there. A tilt of her head, and he took in a breath, eyeing her mouth and then her exposed neck.

“I would very much like to kiss you, Sansa.”

“But you had only kissed me last night.” A fire lit somewhere within the pit of her stomach, warming her. Her gaze found his jawline, a refined Lannister chin hidden beneath a beard darker than the hair atop his head. Her thighs remembered the brush of it. Sansa shivered.

“In daylight, it is different.”

“Why is it different?”

“In daylight, I can see the blue of your eyes and the cut of your cheeks.” Daringly, his hand came to her face. A thumb settled below her lip. “I can see your mouth is raw with my kisses.”

“Your lips are dry with travel, my lord.”

His breathing quickened beneath her fists. “If I were a better man, I would not have accepted your offer so hastily. I should have weighed it, should have spoken to my queen or to your brother.” Tyrion loathed himself, she knew, and a part of her, the scheming survivor, counted on it. He moved to tuck a misplaced curl behind her ear, and she closed her eyes reflexively as her own breathing grew short, haggard. The heat of her stomach slowly made its way through the rest of her body – to her fingertips, to her cheeks, and to her hips. Tyrion traced a path from her ear to her jaw and to her throat.

She could not recall having been touched so tenderly, not since her mother had last braided her hair or her father had touched her face. But this was different. How could a simple drag of of one’s finger be both selfish and selfless? Sansa angled her head so he had better access to her mouth if he needed.

“Would you like me to kiss you?” he asked, his voice strained, perhaps frightened. A silly thing, since she had already permitted him to taste her, to take her. Tyrion had already explored Sansa and her curves and crevices, and yet, somehow, this was impossibly more intimate.

A knock at the door pulled Sansa from whatever trance had taken hold of her. Their breakfast had arrived. “Come in,” she called and stood, her knees cold from the stone floor. She dusted her robe as a young cook – Etta – brought a plate of eggs, bread, and marmalade. The girl made no attempt to hide her shock at Tyrion’s presence and Sansa’s state of undress.

Rumors would soon spread faster than wildfire.

+++


	10. Chapter 10

**Sansa**

Sansa took a deep breath as she placed her hand upon Jon’s bedroom door. He’d summoned her with no explanation as to why, though she assumed news of her coupling had made its way to his ears. She expected as much, for even with what may very well be the end of Westeros upon them, nothing excited those within any castle more than gossip.

Gossip would work well to conceal her premeditation.

She opened the door, surprised to see Jon was not alone. Daenerys stood just over his shoulder as he read a scroll. She wore a heavy, charcoal leather dress and rubies in her white, braided hair.

Sansa met her light eyes first. “My apologies, Your Grace. I did not realize you had an audience with my brother.”

The queen smiled effortlessly and straightened. “No need, Lady Sansa. Afterall, this is your home.” She glanced to Jon before instructing that the door be closed. “We had heard a rumor of sorts, my lady.”

“A rumor?”

Jon’s annoyance was clear as his brow wrinkled.

Daenerys continued, “Yes, a royal matter, as this particular tale involves the Hand of the Queen.”

Sansa grinned dumbly and folded her hands before her. “It would not be proper for a lady to discuss it with her brother, Your Grace. Perhaps he should speak to Lord Tyrion of such things.”

Jon tilted his head, perhaps even more irritated.

“So, it is true?” Daenerys stepped around his table and toward Sansa. The Targaryen was shorter than she, smaller and deadlier. _But not Cersei_. “You can speak to me of such things, my lady. I am a woman widowed, just as you are.”

She felt her porcelain mask slip back into place. “I’d learned quickly that most men only understand the language of pain, Your Grace.”

“Yes, I am well acquainted with that lesson.”

“And although we were ordered to marry, Lord Tyrion never used his position to hurt me. He’d always treated me kindly. ”

“You wish to remain his wife out of duty?” the queen questioned, narrowing her cold eyes. “For a forced vow?”

“For security, Your Grace.” Sansa looked to their boots, noticing Daenerys’ dress hid a pair of pants. “May I be honest?”

“Nothing would please me more.”

She kept her eyes to the floor. “I did not wish to be sold at the discretion of either my brother or of you.”

“Sansa…”

“I can understand,” the queen insisted, speaking over Jon. “Marriage is not the same for men, even when arranged.”

“No. It is not.” Sansa felt purposeful tears sting her eyes. “I hope you both can forgive me for acting so rashly.” A look to Jon told her he already had, but she was unsure of the dragon. Could she detect her intentions? Had the woman known schemers such as she? And had they appeared as meek?

A knock at the door, and Tyrion joined them. Sansa smiled, despite herself, and was pleased to see him smile in return. “Wife,” he greeted, casually, before turning to his queen. “Your Grace. Jon Snow.”

“Sham marriage?” Jon responded, more severely than she had anticipated. He had yet to rise from his chair, but he may as well have been standing over Tyrion, glowering above him.

Tyrion shrugged. “I suppose not.”

“Sansa claims security. What reason have you?”

“I would have to claim the same, Lord Snow.”

Daenerys appeared entertained though she folded her arms across her chest. “How so?” she asked, a smirk hidden somewhere in her voice.

“Lady Stark is a survivor. She’s left dead kings, traitors, and monsters in her wake. I believe there is no safer place for me than at my wife’s side.” Tyrion did not look to her, but the praise warmed her somewhere beneath her pale skin. She could feel the blush under her winter garb, hot and rosy.

“And though my sister has sworn swords of her own, you will protect her as well.” Jon’s words were not a question.

Tyrion nodded. “I had always intended to protect her, even before we were wed.”

The queen’s face hardened. “Then this will make it easier.”

“Make what easier, my queen?”

It was Jon who answered. “You will both travel south with Ser Jaime.”

Sansa gaped at him, unsure of what she’d heard.

“Pardon?” Tyrion retorted swiftly. “I am afraid we may have misunderstood one another, Lord Snow. I am the Queen’s Hand, one who intends to remain at her side.”

“And you are the husband to the sister of the Warden in the North, which means you both go south when we have willed it.”

“We?” he looked to the Targaryen, an eyebrow raised. “My queen, I think it imperative that I follow you north.” She now wore a blank expression, as if detached from the situation. Tyrion was not pleased, and something like concern found his face.

Jon clarified, “We’re not headed north.” His brown eyes glanced between Sansa and Tyrion as he continued, “I’ve ordered the Night’s Watch, the Freefolk, the Umbers and the Karstarks to Winterfell. This will be where we meet the Others.”

“You made this decision after the council meeting? Without any of your advisors?” Sansa then asked. Though he did not answer, his expression told her the truth of it. Sansa marched to him, brushing past the dragon with little care. “I fought for Winterfell, same as you. I gave my body for it, _brother_.” She hadn’t intended the label as a curse, but she could not help herself. “Winterfell is my home.”

“It will kill you if you stay.” He frowned. “I never thought I would be grateful Robb, Uncle Benjen, and your mother could not rest with our family, but… Father is buried here, as well as Aunt Lyanna, and the grandfather we never met. Once the Others reach us –”

“The Kings of Winter will sleep no longer,” Tyrion concluded. From over her shoulder, she could see his eyes downcast.

“There must always be a Stark at Winterfell,” she prodded, knowing Jon would understand her meaning.

He didn’t flinch. “Bran will remain here with me. Because you are my heir, you must go.” When she refused, Jon gave his reasoning. “The Vale fights for you, your husband is the Hand, your uncle sits at the Twins, and your brother-by-law commands your soldiers. Only you can lead us south, Sansa.”

“And what of the smallfolk? Who will care for them?” She wanted to accuse both John and Daenerys of being unemotional, but held her tongue. “You need me here, if not as an advisor then, at the very least, as the head of your household.”

“We cannot keep them here. They will follow within a week’s time. ”

Stunned, Sansa countered, “You expect me to rip women and children from one battle and to another?”

Jon sighed, clearly exhausted by their debate. “What choice do we have? If they stay, they will only be recruited by the dead. The Trident is our last stand. We must hold it.”

“But Winterfell is prepared. We have enough food for a three-year siege and space for those who will need shelter.” She was crying. She couldn’t believe she was crying. “Don’t make me go. I can’t. I won't.”

“You can and you will.”

Her planning was for naught. Her marriage, naming a Lannister as commander, and fortifying Winterfell were all a waste. She was still a stupid girl, no better at playing politics than she was when she first was promised to Joffrey. Sansa thought of her headless father and of her brother’s arrow-pierced corpse, and slowly came to understand Jon’s decision. She could almost feel the funeral pyre beneath her feet.

“You mean to destroy it, do you not? You mean to burn our home and the dead beneath it.”

“If it comes to it, if it stops the Night King.” Jon finally stood, his grim face as sad as she had ever seen it. “You will do as I ask, sister.”

“You will do it because your queen commands it,” the Targaryen stated, her voice a sudden sharpness in their conversation. Sansa could feel the woman’s eyes on the back of her head, but she only stared at Jon. Suddenly, she could no longer cry.

Suddenly, she was furious.

Her tears dried quickly, and she straightened her shoulders before turning to face the queen. Sansa curtsied. “Of course, Your Grace.”

+++

**Jaime**

Though she rode her palfrey seeming every bit the ice queen the northerners admired, Jaime could sense her misery. Sansa had remained quiet for days, almost uninterested in their journey or what awaited them at the Green Fork. She offered few words – _thank you, good morning, I defer to you_ – and he could not blame her. The girl had been a prisoner and a pawn for years, only to be once again ushered to another location in the name of politics. Even he’d thought the young Stark had escaped those mechanics, but perhaps none of them ever really could.

Arya and Brienne, who remained close and always rode at Sansa’s side, had not made their feelings known to him either. They, like the lady they protected, had said little since leaving Winterfell along side the Dothraki, the Knights of the Vale, and wagons full of food. Brienne had all but ignored Jaime.

The three women rode just ahead of him and his brother, well out of earshot but where he could clearly see them.

“The last place she wants to go is south,” Tyrion muttered as he guided his pony closer. His face, partially obscured beneath his hood, was still enveloped by the grimace he’d worn for days. “We only bring her closer to our mad sister.”

“Has she said anything to you?”

“Beside pleasantries? No. She hasn’t asked for my council or my…” Tyrion allowed his sentence to die. “I can’t help but wonder if I’ve offended her.”

The duo’s hastiness had buzzed through Winterfell, a surprise to both the Stark bannermen and Jaime alike. Though he’d believed his advice logical, he hadn’t expected Sansa to act so quickly. Perhaps she’d only needed someone to say what she’d already surmised. “I doubt it. She’d spent too many years yearning to return home only to be sent away again.”

“You believe the command unsound?”

Jaime snorted, “I believe the command heartless, but I am no king nor do I insist on sleeping above a graveyard.”

For a moment, Tyrion pursed his lips with thought. His eyebrows angled, wrinkling his forehead. “My wife is very clever. She’ll find her way back, even if you and I do not.”

A grin unconsciously touched Jaime’s mouth. “So you approve of Jon Snow’s order?”

“For Sansa, yes. If her brother or my queen should perish, since they refuse to listen to reason, Sansa is the kingdom’s best hope for… some semblance of unity. Her blood ties her to both the Eerie and the Riverlands, and if you ignore her marriage to me, she has a good name and good reputation.”

“And if you do not ignore it, the marriage ties Sansa to the Westerlands as well.” He paused, allowing his brother a moment to ponder his remark. “And what of your order?”

“I should be with Daenerys,” he firmly stated, and Jaime waited for Tyrion to divulge, knowing full well the words already rumbled in the back of his brother’s throat. “With the right council, she is a good ruler.”

“And Jon Snow is not the right council?”

“I don’t know,” Tyrion groaned. “He’s a good man, but maybe just as foolish as his father. And Daenerys can be… temperamental.”

Horrified by the deliberate whitewashing, he nearly burst out laughing. “Is that what we call it now?”

“Need I remind you more than half of your forces belong to the queen?”

“Please, brother,” Jaime hissed. “You are worried you will lose favor. Jon Snow is the White Wolf, honorable son of the honorable Ned Stark, and you are afraid she will prefer his opinion to yours.”

“Regardless, she still requires someone to check her worst impulses.”

A ghostly heat, one of dragonfire, rushed over him. “I’m certain she does.”

A few minutes passed before Tyrion switched topics. “You know, I couldn’t help noticing the pommel of Lady Brienne’s sword. I had failed to spot it in the dragon pit.” When Jaime did not respond, he continued. “It is your Valyrian steel she carries, is it not?”

“I couldn’t very well send her to protect Sansa Stark unarmed, could I?”

His brother’s mouth fell agape. “You didn’t tell me you sent her.”

“We both swore oaths to Catelyn Stark, and I owed Brienne a debt.”

“Neither required a priceless sword,” he parried. “I know she saved your life, but why give it to her?”

“Because she is deserving of such a blade,” Jaime snapped with voice low. “She is good, truer than any knight I’ve met in my forty years despite being ridiculed her whole life.”

“Huh.” Tyrion moved even closer. “And now you happen to wield its twin.”

Before Jaime could think to ascertain Tyrion’s meaning, Bronn and the bloodrider, Qhono, rode to them from the front of their troop. “All is well with your men?”

“Sun gets low, and Dothraki are cold.”

Jaime nodded in agreement. “We’ll stop soon.” Within the hour, he instructed tents to be pitched, fires to be built, and horses to be fed. The two unlikely armies shared rations with little complaint, seemingly accustomed to one another though they didn’t really have a choice.

Jaime joined the campfire Sansa, Tyrion, Arya, Brienne, and Podrick surrounded. The squire was quick to provide him with a bowl of whatever they were eating and a wineskin, even offered his own seat beside Brienne. She shifted awkwardly to give Jaime more space, but he ignored her decorum and sat as close as he possibly could without touching her. A brief look in his direction indicated only Arya noticed.

“Another day’s march, and we’ll be in the Neck, Lady Stark,” he informed. “There it could be the most difficult. We may be trudging through both mud and snow.”

“But we are making good time, considering,” Sansa remarked. Her Tully eyes moved from the snow on the ground and to his face intently. “The men are well? The horses?”

“Yes, well indeed.” Jaime was pleased with her inquiries. Whatever cloud had taken hold of her had maybe dissipated. “The khalasar is more organized than I had expected.”

“That is good to hear.” She reached for Tyrion’s wineskin and drank as he gawked at her. Jaime noted that their fingers brushed upon the wine’s return. “Thank you,” Sansa whispered.

“Of course,” Tyrion whispered back.

Once they finished their meager meals, Sansa asked that Arya accompany her to her tent. Tyrion decided to take a walk with both Podrick and the wineskin.

Jaime and Brienne remained behind.

He did not know how to approach small talk with her. Mindless words seemed foolish when all he cared to do was admit he’d pictured Brienne when the Starks had demanded he swear upon love. But how would she react? He was an inscetuous father-to-be who had abandoned his sister because… _she_ had said, _Fuck loyalty_. She’d blessed his decision before he’d even made it.

Instead of confession, he offered wine. “Would you like a drink?” he asked softly.

The fire crackled, and much to his surprise, Brienne took the wineskin. As she sipped, she closed her bright eyes, and it was as if she took the moon with her. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and looked to him, the fire reflecting in her gaze. It left him breathless.

She thanked him coolly.

“You know,” he said, “I never thanked you for saving my life.” A hint of a smile may have seized the corner of her mouth, but she refused to comply. It emboldened him. “I’m of course referring to this last bout, not the many before.” If only Jaime could urge her to give into it.

“Are we keeping score?” Brienne questioned, and he could almost detect the delight buried beneath her propriety.

Jaime laughed. “If you’d like to make a wager...”

“I avoid wagers, ser. Since Bitterbridge, they’ve left a bad taste in my mouth.”

Despite not knowing what had occurred in Renly’s camp, he gave a small nod. He had no intention of visiting an unpleasant memory tonight. Jaime glanced up at the sky to see the clouds had cleared, allowing the stars to wink at the kingdom below.

“You’ve avoided me,” she abruptly stated. The accusation pulled him back to earth, and her hand unconsciously moved to the sword at her hip though her eyes still focused on the flames. Her thumb settled atop the lion’s head. “We haven’t spoken since the war council.”

Jaime had given her space with hope she would come to him. He hadn’t expected the same of her. “On the contrary, I was convinced you were avoiding me. I haven’t been a very good... _friend_ to you.”

An ugly puzzlement engulfed her broad face. “How do you mean, ser? You’ve kept your promise.”

“Have I? I’m about to battle the living as Daenerys Targaryen and Jon Snow fight the dead.”

“Because an army threatens the North from behind. You’re keeping the Stark girls safe.”

“You’ve kept them safe,” Jaime corrected. He forced himself to glance away and to his golden hand. The color it emanated in this light was a sickly, rusty hue. “I may have joined much too late.”

“You are here now.” A log split loudly in the fire, and the wind rustled the naked branches surrounding their camp. “Besides, why would I avoid you?” Brienne’s tone was like nothing he’d ever heard from her. Soft and sweet, one could say.

“I assumed you were disappointed in me,” Jaime admitted.

“But you’re here,” she repeated. “Since we’ve met, you’ve sworn several oaths and kept them.”

“And since then, what have I been doing? I remained in King’s Landing far longer than any fool would have, and for what?”

Brienne’s blue eyes, bluer than the waters that surrounded Tarth, sparkled sorrowfully. “It isn’t my business.”

Jaime could hear his heart beating in his ears. “What if it was?”

She froze a moment, as if he had asked the most intimate of questions.

Perhaps he had.

With face flushed, she stood. “I think it best we get some rest, ser. Tomorrow may be tiring for Lady Stark.” Brienne then walked to her tent without looking back.

+++


	11. Chapter 11

**Jaime**

His tent stunk of perfume, sour wine, and rot. Though he did not remember returning, let alone falling asleep, Jaime’s eyelids weighed heavily and refused to open. He breathed deeply, instantly wishing he hadn’t, and coughed.

“Shhh,” she cooed, her breath hot on his face. He shifted and felt her atop him, straddling his lap as she had so many times before. “You’ll wake them both.”

Jaime rubbed his eyes and focused on her form. A red, silk robe hid her breasts but did nothing to conceal her protruding stomach. She was no less beautiful now than when they had been seventeen, but her nearness, her touch, only filled him with revulsion.

“Cersei.” Her name tasted of offal. He thought he might choke on it.

“Mmm. You may have bent the knee to that Stark whore, but you can’t be rid of me. After all, we’re two halves of a whole.” She dragged her talons down his chest and over the swell of her belly. Liquid gold seeped from her skin and dripped onto his stomach, burning him.

“Leave me,” he forced.

Cersei sneered, “Leave you to what? To fuck the monstrosity who believes herself a knight?” She rolled her hips against his, as she was wont to do, and his body responded despite his disgust. “I can’t help but wonder what sort of beastly sounds that bitch makes when in heat. Do you imagine the same, Jaime? Do you envision her grunting beneath you while you weakly pump your tired cock with your useless hand?”

“Enough,” Jaime roared though he had no strength to shove her. He was barely able to struggle.

“Keep quiet, brother. If he suspects, we’ll surely lose our heads.”

Bile crept into the back of Jaime’s throat before he turned toward the unnoticed weight in his bed, already aware of who he would find. Robert Baratheon, gut sliced open and spewing blood, lay beside him with wide, ice-blue eyes. His skin instantly froze over, changed from pink to white, and the dead king screamed an unholy sound.

Jaime woke, and because he could not trust his subconscious, he was dressed before the campfire not ten minutes later. He was not alone for long.

“It’s late, Lord Commander,” Tyrion commented as he joined, glassy-eyed though far from drunk. “Should you not be abed?”

“I had trouble sleeping.”

“Nightmares?”

“You are familiar?”

His brother sighed. “Yes. Many visit me when I dream. I see Shae sometimes. Tysha. Father. The Tarlys as well.”

“I’m afraid the Tarlys will haunt you for the rest of your life. One doesn’t forget the stench of burning flesh.” Jaime closed his eyes briefly, remembering Rickard Stark cook as his eldest son begged for mercy. “Why are you still awake?”

“Oh, you know how it can be with Bronn. We found a group of warriors trading stories.” His brother swallowed more wine. “And I didn’t want to disturb Lady Stark.”

Jaime narrowed his eyes. “Did she request this of you? Or are you suddenly afraid of wolves?”

“Neither, actually.” He took another swig, and Jaime snatched the skin away. Tyrion scowled. “I’m simply doing my best to read her. You know, I was never very good at that.”

“One could assume that is her intention.”

“One could assume,” Tyrion echoed. He licked his lips and straightened his shoulders. “One could also assume it was our sweet sister who paid you a visit tonight.” When Jaime refused to confirm or deny his thought, he continued. “You’re doing what’s right.”

“I know.”

An uncomfortable moment passed, and Tyrion evidently could not bear the silence. “I’ve never met Edmure Tully. Is he more like Lysa or Catelyn? I’m truly hoping he’s the latter.”

At that, Jaime managed to smirk. “What if someone were to ask if am more like you or Cersei?”

“Clearly that is the wrong question,” he replied with a wild smile of his own. “Cersei and I are most alike. One need only look at our cheekbones.” They both chuckled, and it almost felt natural.

“Go to your wife, Tyrion. Inspire her to laugh.”

His little brother stood, insecure but determined. “You should take your own advice, Jaime.”

“You suggest I make your wife laugh?” he questioned, acting innocent.

With another chuckle, Tyrion moved to place an unsteady hand upon Jaime’s shoulder. “I mean you should try and spend some time with Lady Brienne.” Before Jaime could say a word, he cut him off. “Even the Dothraki have commented on the looks you two give one another.”

“Have they?”

His hand dropped to his side. “You need to do more than glance at the woman to convince her of how you feel. Though your longing, mute exchanges are, if I dare say, rather adorable, they serve you very little and the lady even less.”

+++

**Sansa**

“I was angry with you,” Arya disclosed plainly. They had not had a moment to speak alone in many days, and Sansa knew she’d needed to vent. The Starks were at their strongest when communicating honestly, and she was glad Arya came with her concerns.

“And you are no longer?”

Her sister nodded a confirmation, eyes neither frigid nor stormy. “Your maneuvers are rarely selfish, but after all you’ve been through, I can’t help feeling territorial.”

“I know. I feel the same about you.” She sat upon her bed and grinned at the grown Arya Horseface, now a lethal and suspicious woman with weapons ready at her hip. “We need to strengthen our alliances, and marriage is a way of doing that. Just as I may be a key to the North, both Tyrion and Jaime are keys to the West.” Sansa pictured a map of Westeros in her mind’s eye. The Stormlands had remained undeclared since losing both Baratheon brothers, and whomever still survived in the Reach had reluctantly bent the knee to Daenerys. _They had no choice for she threatened them with dragonfire. Cersei would have done the same._

“Do you think he’ll choose you over her?”

 _Over his queen? Or his sister?_ “I don’t yet know,” she responded truthfully and studied her sister’s round face. The way Arya’s lips twitched implied that she had more to say. “Do you wish to ask of something else?”

“He’s obviously touched you.”

Sansa nearly blushed. “Yes, but just the one night.”

“And?”

“And what?”

Arya shifted her weight uncomfortably. “You seemed… content the morning after.”

Sansa chewed her bottom lip as a warmth traveled within her. “Tyrion was very courteous,” she stated, satisfied with her phrasing, and folded her hands in her lap.

“Courteous?” her sister repeated, clearly perturbed. “Spare me your politeness, Sansa. No lords and ladies are here to judge you.”

“And what do you care of details?” she asked, her voice rising. “Do you mean to mock me? Especially because... oh.” The thought of Baratheon blue eyes and dark hair struck Sansa like lightning. “You ask because of the smith.”

Arya’s cheeks turned beet red before she hurried closer and claimed a chair. “I know it’s stupid.”

“It isn’t.” Sansa took a gloved hand into her own, squeezing. “We’ve been told our duty would be to our husbands and yet no one thought to tell us of that entails. Cersei once said the act was a weapon, and Littlefinger schemed as if it were a commodity.”

“In a brothel, it is,” Arya retorted, sharply. “In the Braavosi pleasure house I’d snuck into, the women seemed to enjoy it, but they were paid well.” Her gaze moved away momentarily, before she added, “The girls, not so much.”

Sansa tried not to imagine the many women Tyrion had surely paid. “Margaery Tyrell tried to convince me marrying Tyrion wasn’t as terrible as it seemed because of his experience.” Sansa could not help then reminiscing on her friend’s pretty smile and her compassion. The Tyrell queen had been vital to Sansa those last few months in the capital.

“Then tell me if tales of the imp are true. Tell me if Margaery was right,” Arya dared and leaned back in her chair. A devious smile slithered upon her lips. “Be sure to elaborate on his _courtesy_.”

–

It had been late when she’d finally sent her sister away and even later when she awoke to her husband sliding into their makeshift bed. The dying fire revealed the disappointment written on his face.

“I did not wish to disturb you,” Tyrion whispered. His mouth made a line, and he shrugged once he settled beneath the furs. “Go back to sleep. We have a long day ahead of us.”

Sansa could sense his quiet apprehension toward her, something she’d noticed not long after they’d left Winterfell. Her husband craved affection, she knew, and the journey south had distracted her from strengthening their kinship. Earning his trust would be an endless endeavor.

She sat up as well and gently touched his forearm. “I am pleased you have. I should apologize for my distance these past few days.”

He shook his head. “Nonsense, you were upset.”

“You know as well as I the Lady of Winterfell lacks that luxury.” She fiddled with his sleeve, momentarily touching the warm skin beneath. “But I admit I made a mistake not believing Jon capable of sacrificing our home.”

“Brothers can be surprising. That is how Jaime outsmarted me, you know. He gave up Casterly Rock to snatch Highgarden.” A small smile curled his lips, but his gaze remained on his arm.

“Perhaps it is indeed wise to have both Lannister brothers with me.” She looked to him then, his eyes clouded and unreadable. _I need his love, not his uncertainty._ Her hand carefully moved from his arm and to his face, cupping his cheek. When Tyrion inhaled sharply and closed his eyes with relief, she understood he’d been waiting for her to come to him. Her fingers roamed into his unruly hair, brushing the curls from his forehead.

“Sansa,” he breathed. “I am sinfully insatiable, a trait unfit for Hand or husband.”

She murmured, “It is the hour of the wolf, my lord, and we are wed. I do not require you to practice restraint at all times.”

Tyrion grasped the sides of her face and hungrily took her lips with his own. Though Sansa tensed in response, she quickly recovered and reciprocated. The kiss deepened as his hands slid down to her arms and pulled her closer. The pressure of his fingers and the feel of his tongue against her own sent a pulsating current through her, a wanton need to indulge in his desire.

“Seven hells,” he mumbled, gasping for air. “Forgive my eagerness. I know I should be more considerate.”

She stopped his talking with another, softer kiss. “You do not always have to wait for me to initiate,” she assured. “I know you’ve heard whispers of what happened since you and I were separated. Please accept that I am not broken because of it.”

His gaze swept over her then, full of admiration and possibly pride. “I realized long ago no one could break you,” he stated, and her mouth fell agape, unprepared for the compliment. He continued, “This _arrangement_ is almost as strange for me as it is for you.”

“Strange?”

“Each night you’ve slept beside me, I have wanted to touch you.” When she did not respond, he continued, “I’m afraid I may already be infatuated with you, and now I’m afraid I may have revealed too much.”

A flush found her. “Let us be honest with one another, in both council and bed.”

“You mean that,” Tyrion acknowledged with eyes suddenly dark. “And what is it you’d enjoy, my lady?”

With her focus only on the political benefits, Sansa hadn’t envisioned enjoying their marriage in this manner. Pleasure as a byproduct had always seemed plausible, but Tyrion actually sought to please her. Her hips shifted unconsciously.

“I need your direction, Lady Stark. I need you to tell me what you want.”

“Your mouth,” she whimpered without thought. “Your silver tongue has many talents.”

“Mmm. I am willing to use my talents however my wife sees fit.” Tyrion took hold of her hand and lay back. “Come,” he beckoned, his voice throaty and fearless.

Nervous, Sansa intertwined her fingers with his and anchored herself as she flung a leg over his hips. Tyrion’s breathing hitched as she slid up his body and positioned herself above him.

+++


	12. Chapter 12

**Sansa**

Just as the weather changed, soldiers in fish scale-styled armor skeptically met them at the gate. The snowflakes were now small and icy and stung her face when the wind blew. Begrudgingly, the men guided Sansa and her advisers into the Great Hall, the very room her mother and brother had been butchered in. She did her best to keep her emotions at bay, pushed them down and deep inside, and though she believed she concealed her trepidation well, her husband, commander, and sworn sword each offered sympathetic glances.

The dark, quiet room was packed with Frey women, Tully soldiers, Knights of the Vale, and Crannogmen, and all stared at her with both worry and wariness. Lady Waywood bowed her head in greeting and the short, pleasant lord beside her, Howland Reed she guessed, did the same. Sansa offered the smallest of smiles for their silent welcome.

A man possessing a haunting resemblance to both her mother and aunt sat at the high table in a chair expertly carved to resemble the very castle they stood inside. Edmure Tully stared at her with a grimace etched onto his angular face, seemingly a hardened, distrustful man. Beside him sat a pale, willowy beauty with a babe upon her lap.

Sansa looked to Arya, and together they stepped ahead of their party. “Uncle,” she greeted and curtseyed. “Thank you for receiving us. The journey south has been long, and we are most grateful.”

The apple of Edmure’s throat bobbed when he swallowed, and he stood to walk toward her. When he was close, she could see tears stung his hazel eyes. “Sansa,” he muttered and enveloped her in a strong hug. “You look just like her.”

 _He is not Aunt Lysa_ , she thought. He was warm and remarkably familiar, and, for a moment, she allowed herself to close her eyes and feel her mother through him.

“And you.” He turned to her sister, delighted. “You, Arya, look like a Stark, but your eyes burn like a Tully.” The observation gave her cause to smile, and Edmure was awarded a cautious hug. Once released, he took Sansa’s hand and presented his nieces to his wife and child, Roslin and Brynden.

“I am happy to meet your family, Uncle, but I am afraid I only bring ill tidings.”

“We received your ravens and did as you asked. I ordered scouts as far south as Harrenhaul,” he confirmed. “Lord Reed’s men, as you well know, can blend like none other. We have yet to hear word of soldiers on the move from the south.”

Tyrion then cleared his throat. “The threat is not from the south alone, Lord –”

Edmure spun to face her husband, snapping like a whip. If tangible, his anger could not have struck her harder. “You do not have the liberty to speak here, Lannister. The badge you wear means nothing in the Riverlands, and you are alive only as a courtesy to my niece.”

“Uncle, please.” She set a calm touch upon his shoulder and was astonished to see even his glare was recognizable. “These men are no longer our enemies.”

“Of course they are. They murdered my sister, nephew, and uncle,” he countered. “The Kingslayer even threatened to launch my son over the walls of Riverrun in a trebuchet.”

A look from Jaime told her the claim was true. Sansa sighed. “Yes, your father-by-law murdered at the behest of my father-by-law. We were at war, and they were monsters. Now we fight a different war with different monsters.” She stepped closer, as if her nearness could convince him. “They are the very reason I am alive to meet your son.”

His eyes scanned the room, still angry, but his voice steadied. “We will sup once you’ve settled, my dear. Your husband is welcome to sup with your commander someplace else.”

–

The soup was not particularly flavorful, but Sansa still gulped it down as elegantly as she could manage. Arya didn’t bother with a spoon and drank directly from the bowl. The sisters sat at a small table with Edmure, Roslin, their son, Anya Waynwood, Howland Reed, and Reed’s daughter, Meera. Nearly all had known their parents at one time or another and gaped at her as if they’d seen a ghost.

She did not like it. Their stares felt too much like those that had belonged to Lord Baelish.

“As a military man, Robb was truly gifted,” her uncle said unprompted, his eyes set upon Sansa. “The Blackfish said so himself.”

“My brother needed more than military prowess to keep his head.” Her harshness was unintentional, but she didn’t have time for reminiscing. It would only get them killed.

Edmure looked to Roslin, who had been bouncing the babe upon her delicate knee. She frowned softly. “He died because my father was a treacherous, pitiful man.” Though her voice was light, her words were no less severe.

Sansa mixed her soup absentmindedly. “He died because he did not marry you. My lady, you don’t have to convince me of your hate for your father or your love for my uncle.” She offered a false smile and thought, _Yes you do_. If they survived the winter, her son could be heir to both Riverrun and the Twins.

The gentle woman nodded before feeding the child another spoonful of food.

“How is your brother, Lady Sansa?” Howland Reed then inquired. He had a friendly face, and she tried to imagine what he’d looked like when he had been young.

“You speak of Jon, my lord?”

“I do.”

“I believe you fought at my father’s side during the rebellion, no?”

“I did, as many had, though I am not much with a sword.”

Sansa blinked. “Were you not with him when he found my Aunt Lyanna?”

A solemn expression overtook his kind face. “I helped bring her home to Winterfell, yes.”

 _He knows_. “Jon is noble though ridiculously stubborn.” She turned her body fully to face the small man who’d held her father’s secret for so many years. “Fire burns in his blood, Lord Reed.” His eyes widened, only slightly. She doubted anyone else noticed. “He is quite a swordsman,” Sansa explained.

Howland Reed released a breath and grinned as he lifted his cup of wine. “He is a Stark afterall.” Sansa held his gaze a moment. He was the most trustworthy man at the Twins.

“Yet he bent the knee to the Mad King’s daughter,” Edmure interjected and poured more wine into her cup. “Why did he do that?”

 _Love_.

“Dragons. They are a sight to behold and unimaginably powerful.”

As her uncle dipped a piece of near stale bread in his broth, he sardonically asked, “Are dragons the reason you remain married to the imp? Or had King’s Landing influenced you so much that enduring him and naming his brother commander seemed justified?” His face was hard, but his eyes were soft. It pained Edmure to play the game, and it was obvious.

“Tyrion and Jaime are not the Lannisters we should concern ourselves with.”

“But they are here, and their sister is not.”

Arya dropped her soup bowl onto the table and wiped her mouth with the back of her sleeve, glaring at Edmure. “That is precisely Sansa’s point,” she snapped. “They’ve honored their respective vows and mean to protect the kingdom. My brother fights the dead, and we must guard his flank. If we die, he dies. If he dies, we die.” When Edmure did not reply, Arya went on. “Winter is coming, and if we continue to squabble amongst ourselves, we won’t live to see spring.”

Sansa hid the smile she had for her sister but revelled in the pride that warmed her chest.

+++

**Jaime**

“Varys still has spies in the capital, I assume.”

“He does.”

As his brother slowly unrolled the message he’d received, Jaime softly applied the salve Samwell Tarly had given him for his stump. The cold only worsened the chafing, but the balm smelled of spring and eased some of the irritation. If the pain did not lessen by tomorrow, he planned to ask the castle’s maester for a concoction of oatmeal and milk. That had worked in the past.

All but banished to their quarters, the brothers had kept to themselves since arriving at the Twins. It was fine by him.

Tyrion’s brow wrinkled. “This particular note has word of Euron Greyjoy.”

“And what has that cunt been up to?”

“The Golden Company arrived in King’s Landing.” His mouth tightened, and he quickly rerolled the parchment. “Seems he was rewarded.” Tyrion glanced to the floor before locking eyes with Jaime, an apologetic expression upon his bearded face.

“I left her. Remember?”

“But you should know she’d been unfaithful to you long before your recent parting.”

He frowned, dismayed by Tyrion’s need to throw salt in his wound, a wound he thought had already scabbed over. Jaime moved to stare out the small window and at the icy snowfall. This castle was more miserable than Winterfell.

Tyrion sighed so heavily, he could almost hear the shrug of his shoulders. “While you rotted in Robb Stark’s camp, cousin Lancel warmed her bed and did her bidding. I know because I blackmailed him.”

Jaime recalled that Qyburn had attended to Cersei almost immediately upon his return to the capital. No doubt to why she’d rejected him then, both remedied of her condition and appalled by his maiming. Though his shock dissolved quicker than even he expected, Jaime did not want to slog through Cersei’s duplicity. He neither had the stomach nor the time for it. “It doesn’t matter. Not anymore.”

A knock upon his chamber door served as a welcomed distraction from their wretched conversation, but the visitor only introduced more confusion. Brienne stood in his doorway, almost filling the frame despite lacking her blue armor. Oathkeeper remained sparkling and fastened at her hip, mayhaps a warning to vengeful Tullys.

Mayhaps a target for vengeful Tullys.

“You asked to see me, Ser Jaime?” Her skin was pink and fresh from a bath, and he couldn’t help staring for her eyes shone brightly in the grim chamber he’d been assigned. She looked to him, incredulously.

Tyrion hopped from his seat, reminding them both of his presence. “Well then, I’ll leave you to it.” He tilted his head in Brienne’s direction and closed the chamber door as he exited.

“I wanted to run an idea by you.” Jaime motioned her to sit, but she did not. “I want to name you my second in command.”

“Pardon?” Brienne’s jaw nearly dropped. “My duty is to protect Lady Sansa.”

“You’ll still be doing that but in a different capacity.” He grinned. “I’ve already spoken to her. You are the person I trust most to not only take my orders but to question them, and when necessary, I believe you’ll call me on my bullshit.”

Her astonishing eyes narrowed. “Bronn is more than capable of that. Besides, I have no experience in the field.”

“I don’t trust Bronn half as much as I trust you, and you’ll do fine. More than fine.”

Unnerved and maybe a little pleased, Brienne nodded. “Thank you for putting your faith in me, Ser Jaime.” She looked away momentarily, as if grasping at something just beyond his head and the stone wall of his room. When their gazes met again, he noticed a sheen that hadn’t been there a moment ago. “What did you mean the other night regarding your… about _information_ being my business?”

Jaime swallowed, suddenly more exposed than he’d ever felt in Robb Stark’s cage. He may as well have been back in Harrenhal, naked and starved and injured. “I… I want it to be your business.” His remark offered no more clarity, so he tried again. “I came North –”

“To honor your oaths,” she finished.

“Yes, but...” He paused, struggling. “You told me to fuck loyalty, so I did.”

Her body relaxed a little. “I’m glad I knocked some sense into you.”

“No, I mean, yes.” Jaime clenched his fist with frustration and stepped forward. “I am explaining myself terribly.”

“So explain better,” Brienne quipped. A smile may have even stirred her mouth.

He persisted. “I followed you North to fight – _no_ – to be at your side, to always _be_ at your side.” The words stole his breath as they escaped him and hung thickly in the air between them. Jaime thought he felt his bones vibrating, as if the Other had again struck him with his icy blade.

“What?”

“I’ve known, maybe for years but couldn’t let myself feel it, you see. It was Arya Stark, if you can believe, who forced me to… She made me swear upon love.” When Brienne did not respond, he continued. “I understand if you do not feel the same. I am unworthy of even your friendship.”

“Stop it,” Brienne ordered and moved toward him. “What are you trying to say?”

A deep breath, and Jaime did as she commanded. “Although I had remained in King’s Landing, my heart had left long ago.” He quickly glanced to the golden pommel her hand rested upon. The sword brought her comfort, he knew, but Jaime wondered if it was the steel or the man who’d gifted it that she clung to. “I’m incredibly unsure if I’m doing this correctly, my lady. How do I convince you of my admiration?”

Her grip stiffened. “Is it admiration you feel, Ser Jaime?”

“A singular word pales in comparison to what I feel. Adoration, appreciation, awe… Perhaps the Citadel keeps it in a book somewhere. I think you know I’ve loved you for quite a while.”

“Love?” Brienne’s gaze wavered. “Is this a jape?”

“No.”

With a shake of her head, she reasoned, “I do not doubt you care for me as one would a friend in arms.”

 _Even she cannot believe your repulsive notions_ , his sister jeered.

Jaime ignored the voice. A fire lit in the pit of his stomach, and he chanced another step. “Between friends, the scenarios I’ve imagined would be more than inappropriate,” he assured, his voice husky and adamant. A blush bloomed upon her skin, and her wide eyes glittered. Jaime relished in her unconscious response. “Is that what you need to hear? Do you need to know of how I’ve dreamed of you?”

“What of Cersei?” she questioned. The name dripped like poison.

“I don’t want her.”

“But you love her.” Brienne of Tarth, the woman who had beaten the Hound and squared off with a bear, again moved impossibly nearer, and a shiver crawled up his spine as he understood he was no longer the lion in the room.

“I loved what she once was, but perhaps what I felt wasn’t love at all but rather an abject narcissism or obsession. I do not know, but I know there is no excuse for my grotesque behavior.” Jaime tried to steady his nervous hand.

“And you left her.”

“I made a promise.”

Again, she advanced. “Because of me?”

He could feel the heat radiating off of her, and it took all his power to not succumb to his need to touch her. “How many times must I say it, you stubborn, perfect woman?” His words surprised Brienne, and it was clearly written on her face. Jaime yearned to rid her of her skepticism, to feel her gentle strength beneath his weight. “I want you,” he stated honestly. “All of you. I want to love you as a man is meant to love a woman: in name, in public, and in bed.”

Would this honorable woman allow him that pleasure? Could she possibly feel the same about a dishonorable man?

Brienne stood strong before him, unafraid despite the quiver of her chin. “I am not your sister.”

“Thank the Gods.”

“Nor am I soft like most women.”

“You are soft where it matters.”

Her calloused hand finally left her sword to carefully cup his cheek, and Jaime leaned into the tremor of her touch to kiss her palm. Cautiously, he then dared to capture her plump lips with his, highly unsure of what first kisses should be like.

But if the smile Brienne wore when he pulled away was any indication, he hadn’t mucked it up.

+++


	13. Chapter 13

**Sansa**

She had to stop this.

Instead of attending the midday meal in the great hall, Sansa’s skirt was gathered at her thighs as she rocked against her husband’s hips. Tyrion’s mouth was at her pulse, and her hand had buried itself in his dirty blonde hair.

Earlier, she’d found him in their chambers bent over a map, his brow thick with contemplation. They’d no more than exchanged a desperate look before he’d unlaced his britches, and she’d slipped from her smallclothes and woolen tights. Wordlessly, they’d settled atop the made featherbed and swiftly found their new but familiar rhythm. It was as if they both suffered an unrelenting hunger, and their need wasn’t as simple as scratching an itch. Sansa demanded his tongue, wanted to hear her name in his mouth and reclaim it with her own.

When remedied of their yearning, they lay upon the dampened quilt. Tyrion looked to the ceiling, and Sansa looked to him. His forehead glistened with sweat.

“I am no longer a young man,” he stated after some time. “Your desire will be the death of me, Sansa Stark.”

“My desire?” She was almost offended. “You speak as if you gain nothing from our coupling.”

“Oh I have theorized you steal a year of my life each time.”

“If true, it is very wicked of me.”

Her husband turned then to face her. “It’s a good trade, really. I am rewarded handsomely. Your smile, for instance, is something I am undeserving of, and though I prefer you in your northern dress and making fools of a dozen lords, you are never more beautiful than when freshly fucked.” As soon as the obscenity left his lips, Tyrion regretted it. His eyes widened as a frown stole the laughter from his face. “My lady…”

“How do you mean?” Sansa asked instead. She propped her head in her hand, so she could look upon him.

Nervously, he clucked his tongue and settled beneath her gaze. “Your cheeks hold a lovely pink flush, and the hairs which frame your face curl and cling to your flawless skin.” He swallowed. “Your eyes are vitric and vivid, and I could stare at them all day, if you permitted me.”

She narrowed her _vitric_ and _vivid_ eyes. “You are a lascivious man, Tyrion, and would soon grow bored of staring at me.”

“I am a lascivious man because I stare at you.” A surprise shiver caused her hips to shift, and darkened Lannister eyes indicated that he noticed. “One could assume you are not yet spent, my young wife.”

Sansa laughed as her cheeks reddened. “I think it best you save one of your lives. You may soon need it.” Without thought, her index finger began tracing the lines of his palm. She enjoyed these moments free of fear and scheming, these moments of postcoital nonsense that followed their _fucking_. A relaxed Tyrion was sweet, and she often found herself bemused by his ramblings and whispers.

She used the chamber pot and cleaned herself with every intention of going about her day, but before long, he was beneath her skirts again, this time with his mouth.

Smothering her face with a pillow was all she could do to keep others from overhearing.

When they kissed again, Tyrion tasted of her, and Sansa wondered if that meant he was hers, if others would later smell her on him _and know_. When the Dragon Queen next met with her Hand, would she sense Sansa had claimed him for her own? That at night, she now whispered into his ear and he into hers?

She shuddered again, but not with pleasure.

“Now, I’ve exhausted you,” Tyrion chirped, ignorant of her nerves. He wiped his beard with his hand and grinned a knowing grin, pleased with himself.

“You have,” she confirmed and rifled her fingers into his curly hair. “And you enjoy it? Enjoy me?”

“Mmm. Very much.”

“And you trust me?”

His forehead wrinkled, startled. “And suddenly, we are serious,” he observed. Tyrion scooted closer, tossing an arm about her waist, and laid his head next to her own. “Of course I trust you, Sansa. What troubles you?”

She hesitated but only for a moment. “Do you trust your queen?”

Tyrion’s eyes squinted slightly, as if to discern her meaning. “Do I _trust_ Daenerys? I am her Hand.”

“You were Joffrey's Hand for a time.”

“You know that was different.”

“She ordered you south, away from her.”

“Because you are valuable, your brother sent you south as well.” His fingers moved to dance upon her hip, and Sansa hated that she found it distracting. “Neither of us are of much use to them against the dead.”

“You don’t believe that,” she snapped. “You said you thought it imperative you remain at her side. It is because you believe it imperative she listen to you.” His expression was confirmation, and she seared it into her memory.

Tyrion pulled his hand away from her skirt and shifted uncomfortably. “You believe the same of yourself.”

“Stark men are not known for their wits, husband. If not for me, my brother would have died before reclaiming Winterfell.”

“What are Stark women known for, then?”

 _Survival_ rung in her head, but she did not answer.

He looked away. “She has much of her council with her. Missandei, Varys, and Ser Jorah are all excellent advisors.”

“I do not doubt your assessment. I am simply asking.”

A knock halted their conversation, and both quickly left the bed to see a young servant boy at the door. Sansa stepped upon her stockings to shield the rumbled pile from the boy’s view.

“M’lady.” The child faltered when he noticed Tyrion, mayhaps the first dwarf he’d ever seen. He bowed nervously, and Sansa hid a grimace. “M’lord. Lord Edmure has asked for your company. Many are here from the North.”

They dressed quickly.

Refugees had arrived, mostly women and children for the men and the elderly had stayed behind to either fight or die where they’d been born. A handful of Unsullied had been sent to protect the people, and with them, they’d brought dragonglass weaponry and a solitary wagon of food. Sansa already knew it wouldn’t be enough. She had made a point to see the Twins’ food storage on her third day.

She would be forced to call upon the rest of the Riverlands, upon whomever did not recognize Cersei as queen.

Most surprising, however, were the presence of both Missandei of Naath and Lord Varys. When Tyrion came to greet them, his jaw clenched and a tension took his shoulders. It remained with him all through supper and the council meeting that followed.

She did not ask of her husband’s worry later that evening, neither before or after she pleased him with her hand. Sansa simply knew she had to stop this.

+++

**Jaime**

“The dead will be here before Cersei sends the Golden Company,” Jaime surmised as he surveyed the men and women he commanded. Since arriving, they’d trained and readied the Twins for battle, and today he’d ordered each soldier to be armed with something new: a dragonglass dagger, spear, axe, or quiver of arrows. At their council meeting the evening prior, Danearys’ advisor and translator had confirmed the army of the dead had been close.

By now, they would be at Winterfell’s northern gate.

He glanced back to Brienne, Tyrion, Bronn, and Missendei. “If they have truly reached Winterfell, we can wager she knows of it.” His phantom hand twitched. “We could toss a coin upon whether or not Cersei sends her army to box us in.”

“You doubt our sister’s vindictiveness?” Tyrion questioned.

“Our sister expects the dead to wipe out half our army.”

“An army you and your Northern lady conveniently separated,” Bronn spit. “I’m sure your twin ain’t shivering in her bed with fright.”

Jaime responded with a glare. Tyrion surely had blurted to Ser Bronn of Euron’s reward.

“Either way, she’s planning,” Brienne stated without looking at him. “She knows how to read her enemies, and she’s had ample time to theorize. Queen Cersei will assume the Dragon Queen most dangerous and unpredictable.” Her eyes moved to Missandei and Tyrion, and she spoke with what appeared to be a well-earned certainty. “She’ll make her predictable.”

Because she and Cersei couldn’t have exchanged more than a few words at Joffrey’s miserable wedding, Jaime was surprised at her precise observation. He could still clearly remember the heat of his twin’s stare when he’d stared at Brienne in the Dragon Pit. Cersei had noticed their connection long before either of them had.

She’d also noticed the missing dragon.

“Cersei will prepare King’s Landing for the dragons with scorpions,” Tyrion concluded as if he could read Jaime’s thoughts. “Ser Bronn injured Drogon with a single bolt. Who is to say what a dozen could do?”

“Or two dozen,” Bronn added.

Missandei of Naath nodded. “Queen Daenerys’ children burned the wise masters’ ships easily, and she took Astapor with only a young Drogon.”

Jaime’s mind worked rapidly. “Qyburn will mount them all over the city, and they’ll usher the smallfolk behind its walls to deter firepower. Tyrion, have Varys’ _little birds_ any other information?” When his brother shook his head, he frowned. “I think it may be time to send scouts past Harrenhal. Until we know the states of both Winterfell and King’s Landing, we are unable to truly act.”

Ser Bronn grimaced. “You need to send me into the capital, you mean.”

“You’ll be spotted.”

Tyrion shook his head in disagreement. “Bronn knows the city and would be better suited than any northerner or Crannogmen.”

“Why cannot the Little Birds continue to send messages?” Missandei aptly questioned as her almond eyes narrowed.

 _Because I do not trust Varys_ , Jaime thought but grinned instead. “Little birds know nothing of strategy. I need a military man to report back.”

“Lord Commander.” Lady Sansa joined Jaime’s unofficial war council with Varys and her uncle trailing close behind. Today, he saw more of her mother in her resolve, a fervor bubbling beneath the calm. “Would it not be wiser to force Cersei into the open?” she asked, but it was not really a question. “Both the Dothraki and the Knights of the Vale are nearly unmatched on the field, and we all know your sister needs little provocation. If we are patient, she will tie her own noose.”

“Queen Daenerys expects the debt to be paid,” Varys noted, and Jaime realized the eunuch’s flowery scent stung his nostrils, even in the cold. “Your brother promised the North would fight for her throne if she aided him with his war.”

“ _His_ war?” Sansa bristled, her icy eyes akin to steel. “Daenerys Targaryen claims she is Queen of the Seven Kingdoms yet ransoms the fate of the largest. She forgets the smallfolk who cannot play nor care for her game of thrones, who will be mowed down by either the dead or the Golden Company if we do nothing to protect them.”

Although Jaime admired Sansa Stark and her clever candor, he knew this time they were perhaps not in proper company. The expression upon Tyrion’s face only solidified his unease. Perhaps they both knew she boldly hoped to test each advisor’s loyalty.

“The North would already be lost without Daenerys,” Missandei bit back. “You need her.”

Her head tilted in the translator’s direction. “As she needs us. Westeros would not welcome a conqueror.”

“Conquerors are rarely welcomed anywhere,” Jaime quipped. “They wouldn’t be conquerors otherwise.”

Tyrion made a face at Jaime before he countered. “Nevertheless wife, a Lannister always pays her debts.“ A silent, knowing look passed between the two, and Jaime doubted valyrian steel could have cut their tension. “Our interests are the same.” His brother’s eyes pleaded. His voice did not. ”You don’t want Cersei on the throne anymore than Danearys does.”

Sansa appeared to ponder his words but not one of her thoughts skimmed her delicate features. “Send scouts if you must, but until we hear from our king, troops are to stay in the Riverlands, Lord Commander.” She turned to Jaime then, unwavering.

He nodded. “As you wish, Lady Stark. We will position ourselves on each side of the Crossing, the Dothraki to the south and the Knights of the Vale to the north. Ser Bronn will leave on the morrow.”

She held his gaze for a second longer. Fire had replaced the steel of her eyes, but he did not know what to make of it and decided he would later plainly ask.

“Lady Brienne,” Jaime called, to lighten the mood. “Since another fight may find us soon, I realize I may very well be out of practice.” He smiled haughtily. “I could use a sparring session”

An innocent blush found her neck and the apples of her cheeks as Brienne narrowed her bright eyes. “Do you request a lesson, ser?”

“I may have a lesson or two I could teach you as well.” A taunting shrug took his shoulders, and Jaime noted the curiosity amongst the group. It only fed his audacity. “Might I have this dance?”

__

Earlier, they had worked up a considerable sweat in the yard, so much so that many a soldier had stopped to watch as Widow’s Wail loudly clashed with Oathkeeper. He had thought their chemistry so undeniably palpable that all those within the castle walls had to have felt it. Even Arya Stark had stopped her lurking long enough to silently glower at them as their swords sparked against one another.

Jaime had done better than expected, had moved well against Brienne though she’d beaten him three times the number he’d managed to outplay her. His blood had sung, and her skill had again impressed him.

His body now ached in all the right ways, both with soreness and want.

He pressed Brienne to the wall of her chamber and claimed her mouth with his own. Although slightly clumsy, she was willing and learned quickly, and her fervor set his need aflame. She tasted of battle – of salt and leather and steel – and if the gods were good, they would grant him the ability to melt into her so she could better understand his need, _his love_.

Faster than he thought possible, he unlaced her jerkin to free her throat and freckled shoulder. Jaime licked the rough scar tissue the bear had left behind and was elated when Brienne trembled beneath his tongue. While his mouth continued kissing and nipping, his hand moved to her britches, first to untie and then to slip inside.

“I admit I had hoped to be the man you wanted to touch you,” he mumbled against her throat as his fingers found her center. Her breath hitched. Jaime grinned. Slowly, his middle finger traced the button at her apex, and her hips jerked unintentionally against him, sending a quake of pleasure through his own body. He pressed even closer, his cock throbbing.

“Jaime,” she muttered. He liked the sound of his name when it escaped her mouth and told her as much as he kissed her temple and continued his motions, adapting as her body found its natural rhythm. With a breathless agony, Brienne softly cried his name again. Desperate to fill her, he pushed a finger inside and swallowed her moans with his greedy mouth.

He tore from her lips for a glimpse of her immodest flush, disheveled clothing, and tousled hair. Brienne opened her eyes to him then, a mix of ecstasy and anguish in her stare. Her mouth hung open slightly, an invitation, but before she could beg to be rid of her need, Jaime had to speak honestly. “You’re beautiful,” he admitted as his pace slowed and eyes roamed over her. If ever again alone with only his hand, he’d picture his Lady Brienne in this moment, nearly undone and ready for him.

She, however, was uninterested in his remark and pulled him into a determined kiss, nearly stealing the breath from him. Jaime gladly returned to his work, this time with two of his digits within her slickness, and after a moment’s adjustment, Brienne rode his hand as if they’d been lovers for years. His hips thrust against her thigh, starved for her friction, and Jaime accepted that he may very well spill in his pants like an inexperienced squire.

Brienne peaked with a shout, but no one in the castle heard her. Seemed only a dragon’s roar could muffle his lady’s pleasure.

+++

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really sorry it took so long to update. I'm still working on this one - hope you stick with me. :)


	14. Chapter 14

**Jaime**

They hadn’t had the time to continue in their indulgences, and even as Jaime waited in the courtyard beside Lady Sansa and Lord Edmure to receive Daenerys Targaryen and Jon Snow, he could not stop thinking of Brienne’s calloused hands as they’d held his face and slid over his shoulders. Her shameless satisfaction had been hot upon his ear and left him wanting, _hungry_ for all of her. Acutely aware of Brienne’s position behind him, he could almost sense her blue gaze drifting along the back of his neck and over his salt-speckled hair like a welcomed sea breeze.

Jaime swallowed and tried to will away his salacious musings, knowing full-well that soon not even a heavy, northern cloak would hide his desire.

It would be a lie to not recognize how familiar _this_ was. How many times had he started fucking Cersei only to tuck away his hardened cock before some handmaid, squire, or king had interrupted them?

He exhaled.

Brienne was nothing like his cursed sister, and the boy king was no Robert despite his allegiance to the dragon queen, who needed little reason to demand his head.

And if Jaime and Brienne openly courted, no one would bat an eye.

_Well, they might bat an eye._

Today, the sovereigns brought no litter. They had arrived upon steeds made of magic and fire whose roars thundered from just beyond the gate. Dothraki keepers moved quickly to feed the black and green beasts a large serving of livestock, and the sound of their feasting did well to shrivel any of Jaime’s residual lust.

The few Unsullied stood at attention, the Dothraki cheered for their Khaleesi, and the Westerosi openly gawked. Jon Snow had seen better days. His brow was heavy, and bags sat beneath his dark eyes. Daenerys, however, looked well. She wore a white fur coat, the veins of which were a deep red. Jaime noticed the faint blood stains at its edges.

Sansa did not curtsey before she pulled her bastard brother into an embrace, and her ungloved hand moved into his thick curls. “What news have you, Jon?” she asked with a slight tremble in her voice. “What of Winterfell?” For a moment, he thought Jon Snow lowered his northern defenses and allowed himself to sink into his sibling. Not only were Stark women smarter than their men, they were stronger as well, and he required her strength.

“We lost it,” the boy whispered in return. “We lost many, despite our reinforcements.” Jon Snow paused and pulled away to force a sad smile. “Theon returned to fight for you, charged himself and his few Ironborn with protecting our brother.” He helplessly smoothed her red hair. “But he was no match for the Night King. None of us were.”

Her bright eyes were wet. “Bran?”

He only shook his head. Sansa’s bottom lip quivered, and she quickly covered her mouth with her hand to conceal it.

Jaime frowned and looked to his boots. He’d doomed the boy when he’d put him in that blasted chair. _Countless_ , he’d once told Qyburn when he’d been asked about how many he’d killed. _What is one more life atop the pile?_

“I failed you, sister.”

It was then when Tyrion finally joined them, unawares. “My queen,” he spoke before he saw Sansa’s quiet grief. A flinch, an instinct to reach for his wife, rippled through Jaime’s little brother, but he did not act upon it. A hand upon the lady’s arm or a quick, kind word would have been enough, but Tyrion had already foolishly ignored his urge.

Daenerys, perhaps perturbed that decorum had been forgotten, watched and waited, studied Sansa and the strangers that stood in the courtyard as they studied her in return.

One of her monsters growled, and Jaime’s gut wrenched.

“My lords,” Sansa announced, ignoring the sob cracking her voice. “May I present Jon Snow, The King in the North, and Queen Daenerys Targaryen.”

Missandei took the moment to list her queen’s numerous titles and was rewarded with a smile that may very well have been genuine. Jaime misliked it all the same. Dutifully, Sansa then rattled through the names of the highborn who had pledged themselves to her father and brother before they’d pledged to her. The Riverlords bowed, as was expected, and the silver queen accepted their welcome without a word.

“It is a cold day in the Riverlands, Your Grace,” Edmure stated, shakily. “Let us warm by the fire with a cup of mulled wine and speak of your next plans.” His Tully stare met Sansa’s briefly, and she nodded her approval.

The Targaryen grinned. “Thank you, my lord.” Her gaze still unsettled Jaime, and it was as if no one else noted its glossiness.

Edmure guided the king and queen inside and motioned for the rest of the courtyard to follow. Jaime, Sansa, Brienne, and Podrick lingered behind. Arya, as he was growing used to, appeared as if out of nowhere.

“My lady,” Brienne began but was stopped with a wave of Sansa’s pale hand.

“More will be dead before the winter has passed, Lady Brienne. Let us save our condolences until then.”

“Do you need a moment’s privacy?” Arya caught her sister’s elbow and squeezed. “The hall can bloody wait. It’s had its fill of Stark tears.”

“I wouldn’t want to keep my husband’s queen waiting.” Sansa turned from her inner circle and toward the Keep.

The younger Stark brought her hands behind her back and glanced to her company. “Sansa’s the strongest person I know. We must be the same for her.”

—

Bran Stark. Beric Dondarrion. Jorah Mormont. Samwell Tarly. The Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. Theon Greyjoy. The last of the Umbers. The last of the Karstarks. A quarter of the Unsullied. A third of the wildlings.

Too many dead, but thankfully, most would remain that way. At the very least, the dragonriders had been smart enough to burn their own as they’d fallen, had fielded any attempt at resurrection and depleted the Night King’s army by half.

Though a small win, it was a win nonetheless, and they would have to take advantage. Otherwise the cost would mean nothing.

It was agreed that Jaime would send ravens to the west and to the garrison he’d left long ago at Riverrun. Sansa and Edmure would jointly call any riverlords who were not already at the Twins, and Brienne would do the same to whomever remained in the Stormlands. Despite Daenerys’ claim of the empty castle at Dragonstone, they would better listen to the Evenstar and his daughter, the remnants of an old, honorable house.

Lord Glover’s men hadn’t ridden north, unhappy with the bend of Snow’s knee. Now with no other option, they were to come south and join what was left of their men.

Jaime nearly snorted to himself. _Their_ men. Though he’d begun to grow accustomed to the Stark banners and their bannermen, he’d refused to accept the Targaryen’s despite their mingling. And that gave him pause. Since Snow’s and Daenerys’ arrival at the Crossing, Jaime couldn’t help but see a change in their demeanor. Where there was once warmth, a coldness lingered. Jon kept his queen at a distance even when he stood at her side. Their romance had soured, Jaime was certain. War had a tendency of bringing buried passions to the surface, and not all passions led to the bedchamber.

He remembered Ares and poor Rhaella’s cries as he’d stood helplessly outside their door.

But when he tried to picture the old, mad king, he didn’t much look like himself. The wildfire burned in his eyes, and his cropped, golden hair shined in the candlelight as he pulled Jaime’s breeches to the floor.

Disgusted with himself, he trembled.

Cersei had earnestly wrapped her mouth around his cock that night, and again he’d stood helpless before a tyrant. His hate for Ellaria Sand may have rivaled his sister’s, but he’d gained no pleasure in the wretched woman’s punishment.

_But you let me suck you dry anyway, dear brother. There was Dornish blood upon your cock, just as there was in my wet cunt, and you didn’t mind. You reveled in my revenge and relished its slickness._

Jaime blinked and pushed away his thoughts.

“Sansa. What are your feelings?”

The lady of Winterfell lifted her dry stare from the map and to her king, as if she hadn’t just learned of her dead brother, dead friend, and abandoned home. She’d been vocal in the council meeting, and the king and queen begrudgingly listened to her concerns. Her mind not only remained on the smallfolk but on the food supply and the run of her uncle’s castle.

She ran a delicate index finger over the pictured waters in the east. “You once mentioned that they cannot swim.”

“That was before a dragon was fetched from the bottom of a lake.”

“Nevertheless, we need those who cannot fight to evacuate.”

“You suggest Essos?” The Targaryen’s eyes were suddenly bright. There was an opportunity afoot. “I suppose Meereen would welcome refugees if I willed it.”

“If it comes to that, mayhaps we will be dependent upon your kindness, Your Grace.” Sansa shifted to regard Brienne. “I thought those left in the North and the Eerie could flee to Tarth.”

“I have no doubt my father would welcome those in need of shelter, my lady.”

Tyrion frowned. “And what of the Westerlands, wife? Do you suggest they set sail for the east as well?”

“The Greyjoy fleet may quarrel with either of those plans,” Jaime reminded. “Since returning to the capital, do we doubt Euron’s anticipation of your army’s return to Dragonstone?”

His brother quirked an eyebrow, and Daenerys grimaced as if he’d reopened a wound she’d long forgotten.

“Yara Greyjoy has reclaimed her home and would welcome even your sister’s bannerman, Kingslayer,” the woman confirmed. “If I demanded it of her, of course.”

Brienne tightened the hold on her pommel.

“That is good news,” Sansa stated. “Those who can reach the Stony Shore can be ferried to Pyke.”

“But we cannot continue to run,” Daenerys countered. “They will only keep following. Before long, we’ll have Dorne retreating into the sea.”

Sansa shrugged in her direction. “If we could get past Cersei, the Golden Company, and Euron’s fleet, perhaps we might as well.” The Narrow Sea received another soft trace from her fingertips. “I’d like to speak with Ser Davos when he arrives. He knows the waterways of Westeros better than any of us.”

Jaime couldn’t help glancing at Tyrion then, surprised he hadn’t made the suggestion since the two had been on opposing sides during the Battle of the Blackwater. Without a shipmaster at the table, they were ill-equipped to discuss a retreat.

“If they pass the crossing, the retreat will be for naught.” Jon‘s shoulders sunk with exhaustion and worry. The king needed sleep.

And a new strategy.

“We won’t let them.” Jaime began repositioning tokens north of the bridge. “The horse lords will be at the center of our defense. The Knights of the Vale will be to either side. We’ll surround them.”

Daenerys disagreed. “There are too many to surround. You forget their king has enslaved my dragon.”

“Well, then we must make a plan for the dragons still in your possession. The black one, the stronger one, should be assigned to the Night King.”

Her lilac eyes narrowed, and fury blistered beneath her pink cheeks. “Do you not think Jon and I tried to attack him? The being does not burn.”

“But his minions do. If we surround them, the smaller of the two dragons could focus his breath and alleviate the battle on the ground.” He huffed and dropped his useless gold hand upon the table. “Regarding the Night King, we cannot fight fire with fire. You require a warrior atop your steed.”

“A dragon rider does not count as a warrior, Kingslayer?”

He all but chuckled. “I mean to say you do not wield valyrian steel.” Jaime then looked to Brienne, annoyed with his own shortcomings. If he were whole, he’d handle the task he was about to bestow her. “Lady Brienne does, better than anyone.” Her blue eyes fluttered to match his gaze, unsure of his ask, and his stomach dropped. She would not say no. “If you ride with the queen…”

“I could kill the Night King in the air.” A small nod. “I’ll do it gladly. For the realm.” _And for you_ , she did not say aloud, but he knew she’d made the oath beneath her breath.

He was unworthy. “She’ll be an asset to you, Your Grace.”

“Fine. What of Jon?”

“He will set their army aflame.”

+++

**Sansa**

“You told her,” she stated matter-of-factly. “But of course you did,”.

Jon allowed the accusation to hang in the air before he even acknowledged her presence. Here in his chambers, he seemed even more dejected than he had at the council meeting.

“I couldn’t lie.”

“Your truth telling is going to get you killed.”

The fact puckered his face. “She needed to know why I… why I couldn’t be with her any longer.”

Sansa didn’t care. “And now you’ve made an enemy of her.”

“Daenerys knows I don’t want to rule.”

“And that’s precisely why you should sit upon that dreadful chair. You’d be the first to deserve it.” With two steps, Sansa reached him and took his face into her hands. His hair and beard were unkempt but somehow made him even more handsome, and she wondered if his wildness came from Lyanna, if that was why he and Arya had always been so close. “You’ve rallied the freefolk and united the North.” She pushed his hair from his face. “Above all, you listen. You listen to your people.”

“I owe Daenerys my life.”

The rebuke caused her to recoil with repugnance. Her arms fell to her sides, but her hands balled into fists. “If that is the case, Jon, you owe me as well, and I will not be a part of your suicide.”

He gaped at her. “My suicide?”

“Look past your reverence. _Think_ , I beg you.”

“I do not want it, Sansa.”

“Why does she?” She reached for Jon again and took his scarred hand into her own. “Tell me. Why should she be queen?” His stare faltered, proof he could not answer. “She believes she’s deserving, that it was foretold in fire and blood.”

“How could she not? She walked into a pyre and emerged with three living dragons.”

“You were stabbed through the heart and led men into battle only months after.”

“You speak of treason.”

“Treason? Asking a question is considered treason?” Her grip tightened. “Joffrey would have agreed.”

“I won’t hear anymore.” Jon slipped from her hold, but his resolve wasn’t what it once was.

_Something happened._

“What aren’t you telling me?” When her cousin sunk atop his featherbed, Sansa sat beside him. She would not allow Jon to pull away.

“Tell her.” Arya, the shadow that she was, startled Jon when she emerged from a corner of his darkened room. Her calm face was rosy, as if she’d been outside the castle just moments before. “We are the last of the Starks. We must trust each other, must know the actions of our enemies as well as our allies. What troubles you about your queen?” When his eyes widened, Arya tiptoed closer. “Your woe is written upon your face.”

He opened his mouth to speak and closed it just as quickly. His brow furrowed, and his frown deepened. Sansa thought Jon heartbroken.

“She burned them,” he admitted desperately. He bent so he could lean upon his knees. Speaking of it took all the energy he had.

“The dead, you mean.” Her sister again moved closer. “She burned the dead.”

“I’d been thrown from Rhaegal. On the ground, we were overwhelmed, and despite our efforts, they kept coming. We were covered in blood and dirt, and it was almost difficult to discern the living from the dead.”

A confession.

They were witnesses to a confession.

“She’d tumbled through the sky with the Night King and somehow managed to unseat him. She had him in her sights, and he only smiled up at her, taunted us both. Drogon blew his breath upon him with all the strength he had. The fire was so hot.”

And it did nothing. Sansa shivered.

“Only dragonglass and valyrian steel will kill their king. That is good to know,” Arya remarked. “But once she learned she could not defeat him, what did she do?”

Jon sighed. “Daenerys kept the dead from Winterfell as best as she could… she burned them.”

“She sacrificed the army,” Sansa clarified, angrily and clutched at her skirts to keep from raising her voice more than she had already. “She didn’t distinguish the living from the dead.”

“You know better than anyone that tough choices sometimes must be made, sister.” His critique barely stung.

“But that woman holds no remorse for her actions.” Hardened, grey eyes found Sansa then. “I know a killer when I see one.” A warning.

_Meryn Trant. Walder Frey. Joffrey Baratheon._

“Were the Unsullied among the victims of her friendly fire?” Sansa asked.

_Ramsay Bolton. Peter Baelish._

_Cersei Lannister._

“No.”

_Daenerys Targaryen._

__

“And you’re sure?” Lady Brienne stood unmoving. Her lovely, expressive eyes were wide with concern as they searched Sansa’s stare for confirmation.

“I’m sure.”

“Can you prove it?” Before Sansa could nod, Brienne sighed. “I suppose it doesn’t matter if Daenerys believes it. What are your thoughts of her?”

“She’s a killer,” Arya stated. Sansa did not feel the need to elaborate, and Brienne did not ask them to.

She gripped the gold lion of her sword instead. “Have you spoken to Lord Tyrion?”

“I doubt my husband would admit to backing the wrong candidate.”

“Even if you brought this to his attention?”

Sansa closed her eyes briefly and pictured his disappointed face. She supposed he’d find his queen’s actions horrific, but would he challenge her? Would he risk everything for the Starks? “When Danearys burned prisoners of war, Tyrion stood at her side. Why would this be any different?”

“You’ve always spoken highly of your husband, my lady.”

“Yet, ambition tends to cloud his judgement.” _He’s always been ambitious_. “We should operate as if we are at war on three fronts, Lady Brienne, and I’m afraid we’re on our own inside the belly of a fire-breathing beast.”

“Who else can you trust?”

She’d never thought Brienne politically savvy, but the woman continued to surprise her. “Lords Reed and Royce.”

“Your uncle?”

Sansa considered Edmure a moment. “He’s not a politician. I trust him against Cersei, but not many a man could keep his composure before a dragon.”

Brienne suddenly straightened. “You can trust Ser Jaime.”

“What I have in mind may be beyond what he is willing to participate in. As we wade farther south, the fewer friends we have.”

“He swore an oath, Lady Sansa. Not just to your mother, but to you, and you trusted him enough to name him commander.” Her blue eyes glittered, bravely.

+++


End file.
